Best Laid Plans
by elbcw
Summary: A series of murders is investigated by the Musketeers. They make a plan to catch the killer but it does not quite work out as they wanted.
1. Chapter 1

**Authors note: This is my longest story, over 40,000 words, not sure where it all came from. It is finished, I will post a couple of chapters a day (real-life permitting), there are 14 chapters, not including this short prologue. **

**They are all in it, they all get battered. Some more than others. Aramis and d'Artagnan get the brunt of it. I did five minutes of research, then just went with my own ideas. **

**I hope you enjoy it.**

Prologue

Poupart yawned, he stretched, rolling his shoulders a few times. Straightening up from the table he looked down at the unfortunate young woman, taken well before her time by diseases she had left herself open to with her lifestyle. A lifestyle she had probably had little choice but to take up. Selling herself to earn money. He pulled the dirty sheet back over her. No one would arrive to look for her body. She would not be missed. The men would take her in the morning, and she would be dumped in the mass grave with all the other poor and unwanted.

He sighed and wandered over to the small table at the back of the mortuary. It was late, he decided he would finish his cup of wine and retire, leaving the bodies to their eternal slumber whilst he got a few hours himself.

He reflected on the other body in the mortuary. A man in his early forties who had clearly been murdered. Stabbings were not uncommon, but the way the body had been desecrated was disturbing. Poupart did not have the time or resources to properly check each body, but he had taken a moment to look at the dead man. He had been missing internal organs, and not due to some feral cat or dog eating them. They had been cut out, neatly. Poupart took a swig of his wine and looked at the body, a mucky sheet covering it, hiding the injuries. A memory sparked at the back of his mind. He shut his eyes for a few seconds in an attempt to make whatever he had thought of fully form.

A body, and not just one, several. This was not the first victim to be brought in with injuries of the same nature.

Putting his cup of wine down, Poupart turned from the body and pulled his ledger closer to him, he flipped the pages back. His neat handwriting listed all the relevant details of each body he dealt with. There had been occasions when his ledger had proved useful, he wondered if this might be another.

He ran his finger along the columns until he found what he was looking for.

_Male 30's stabbed, organs missing. Body claimed by wife and son._

The address and details of the next of kin filled the other columns. Poupart tapped the page for a few seconds before turning back another page.

_Female 20's stabbed, organs missing. Unclaimed, taken for burial._

_Male 50's stabbed, organs missing. Claimed by employer._

_Male 20's stabbed, organs missing. Body claimed by father._

Poupart flipped back through several pages. He could not believe he had missed the connection. Every few days there was a body, sometimes two, brought to him in similar circumstances. He stopped himself from becoming too guilty by remembering there had been a particularly cold couple of weeks over the time the bodies had started to appear. He had dealt with a lot of victims of the weather. It was not surprising that he had missed the link.

But he had seen it now, and he had to report it.

MMMM

Nothing had come of the report. He had spoken to the authorities; they had taken details. The constable had appeared sympathetic, but not really interested. Poupart knew little would be done, the poor were seen as a blight by many. A few less of them was a good thing in some people's eyes. The murderer was probably doing France a favour.

Poupart shook his head at the memory of his attempt to get someone, anyone, to listen to him about the obvious serial killer. He sighed and tried to push it to the back of his mind as he folded the dirty sheets and put them to one side, ready to be used again. He moved to sit at his small table, picking up his quill, about to write up the details of the latest bodies he had taken receipt of.

The sound of people approaching made the middle-aged man look up. Another customer he suspected. People did not visit him at midnight to claim a body, only to deliver him another. The torches flickered as the door at the end of the mortuary was opened. Poupart rose from his chair and walked toward the two men who were carefully carrying a limp form between them. A second pair of men followed with a second body.

Two new arrivals. Poupart was not going to visit his bed for a while.

'Found 'em on the street,' said the first man who had entered, a swarthy man that Poupart had seen before. 'Stabbed, I think, robbery perhaps? A couple of locals pointed them out to us.'

He and his men were employed to clear the roads of dead animals and the occasional body. They lay the two dead men on tables side by side. The man gave Poupart what little detail he had. The untidy employees of the state walked off, with barely a glance back. Any pity for the deceased or their families dulled from years of working in the poorest areas of the city. People were attacked and murdered, it was part of everyday life.

'Boy,' Poupart called over his shoulder to the small lad he paid to run errands for him and generally help.

The boy, Poupart had never managed to get a name from him, uncurled himself from his tangle of blankets and pushed himself up to stand, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he did.

'More light, and some water,' said Poupart before returning his attention to the new arrivals.

Something about the two bodies intrigued him. They were young men. Only in their early twenties, if that. On first glance, Poupart could tell they did not fit in with the area they had been found in.

They were far too clean.

Their clothes were dirty, but that would have been from lying on the street, dead or dying. Any other dirt that he could see was superficial, other than a few stains of what looked like wine. And the clothes did not look old or well worn.

The men's faces were not scarred or pockmarked, they were not weathered from days of hard labour in the sun or near a forge. A quick glance at the young men's hands told him that they had probably never worked a day in their lives. There were no calluses, their fingernails were in good condition other than the dirt that had collected under them. Poupart hated to think what the young men had done as they died, clutched at the ground or clawed at some dirty wall?

He wondered why the men had been in an area of Paris which was clearly below their station in life. Were they lovers seeking privacy in some cheap rented room, away from the disapproving gaze of society?

Poupart pushed the blond man's plain, but good quality, doublet aside. He sighed. A stab wound just by the heart. He turned his attention to the dark-haired man finding the same injury.

Both men were missing organs. Neatly cut from their bodies.

The serial killer had struck again.

But this time the killer had made the mistake of not taking the poorest of the poor. No. This time the killer had made the mistake of taking young men from wealthy backgrounds.

Poupart was sure the authorities would take note now. Now that the rich had been attacked.

MMMM


	2. Chapter 2

Treville nodded a greeting to the two Musketeers standing guard outside the King's private rooms.

'What's his mood?' he asked.

Pierre glanced at him and shook his head, 'he was shouting earlier, one of the younger footmen left in tears. He is not a happy man.'

Treville sighed before taking a deep breath and stepping forward as his men opened the doors for him. He knew he was expected; he had been summoned. A terse note had been delivered, written in the monarch's own hand an hour before. The Musketeer Captain knew better than to keep an angry King waiting. He had stopped what he was doing and left the garrison, heading for the Palace immediately.

The note had only told Treville that the King required his presence. The King's usually neat handwriting had become a scrawled mess. Whatever had upset the King was going to be Treville's issue to sort out, of that he was sure.

The King's private apartment was large, befitting a leader. Matching chairs sat around a table in the centre of the first of several rooms. A few papers lay scattered across the table, a quill and ink ready for use next to them. The chair in front of the papers was pushed back at an angle, the occupier having moved away from the table.

King Louis was stood with his back to the doorway, he was staring out of the window, across the immaculate lawns. He turned to Treville as the door clicked shut. His face was flushed with anger.

'It is not good enough,' he said.

Treville did not respond wondering what the King was talking about.

'It should not be happening in my city.'

'What, your Majesty?' asked Treville.

'My subjects should not be getting murdered.'

'Perhaps you should start at the beginning, your Majesty. Who has been murdered?'

The King stared at him for a few seconds.

'You don't know? How can you not know that a series of murders have been happening in your city? What do I pay you for?'

Treville had to bite his tongue. He loved his King, but sometimes the man seemed to lose all sense and intelligence.

'People have been murdered. Stabbed in the night. It's not good enough. I want answers and I want the offender caught. Two of my courtiers have been killed. Their families are distraught. How could you allow this to happen?'

Treville began to make sense of what the King was saying. The death of two courtiers would cause a stir in the palace. If those deaths were linked to other deaths the details would reach the King who would want answers.

'I apologies for not already knowing about these killings, sire. You will need to give me all the information that you have.'

The King glowered at him for a few seconds. Treville wondered if he was supposed to gather the information by reading the King's mind.

'The son of Comte Beringer and the grandson of Vicomte Roux have been murdered, stabbed through the heart. Dumped in some dirty back street. They were found and taken to the mortuary. Only after this horrific occurrence was brought to my attention did I learn that these were not the first murders. This has been going on for weeks.'

Treville knew that whatever he said was going to annoy the King.

'I was unaware that this was happening sire. Your head of police should be looking at the murders-'

'He has other things to be dealing with. I want you to look at this. The fact that he did not bring this to my attention makes me believe I may have to look at another man for that role. Until such time as a man is found I want you to deal with it. Use whatever resources you have. I want this devil caught and dealt with.'

The King's voice had gradually risen as he spoke, getting louder with each word. He was very worked up. Treville guessed the families of the victims were influential in the court. It would not look good for the King not to be seen to be doing anything. Treville suspected the young men had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time and that some enterprising constable had noticed that there had been several stabbings recently and put two and two together. But Treville would do as his King wanted. He would assign some of his men to deal with the matter.

'What if more nobles are attacked? What if the murderer gets into the Palace?'

'I think that is unlikely, your majesty-'

'You don't know that though, do you?'

The King did have a point, thought Treville, with what little information he had been given he did not know if the attack on the nobles was targeted or not.

'I will put my best men onto this immediately.'

'See that you do,' said the King before stepping forward and snatching up a couple of sheets of paper from the table, 'these are the details that are known.'

He handed the papers to Treville.

The King waved his hand, dismissing him. Treville bowed respectfully and left the room. He did not like to see the King upset; Louis had a short temper at times but on the whole, was a good man.

As he walked from the Palace, looking at the details of the murders, the Musketeer Captain could only think of four men for the job of investigating them. Four men from diverse backgrounds, with a collection of skills that could be put to good use in a murder investigation.

His inseparables were about to be given an important, if unpleasant, assignment.

MMMM

Treville was stood behind his desk looking at a couple of pieces of paper as they filed into his room. The meeting was not formal, the Captain had indicated for them to join him in his office when he had returned from the Palace.

Aramis had been watching Athos and d'Artagnan sparring whilst Porthos was trying to teach one of the cadets how to take a punch, although he was not succeeding very well. The Captain had merely looked at them each before nodding towards his office. They had followed him without a word. The cadet that was now sporting a black eye looked relieved that his lesson was over.

Athos and d'Artagnan had moved to stand in front of their Captain's desk, Porthos was leaning against the wall to the Captains right. Aramis stood back a little waiting for his Captain to speak.

'I have just had a very irate monarch asking me why I didn't know about a serial killer in the City.'

The statement brought differing reactions around the room. Porthos looked amused whilst Athos was concerned and d'Artagnan showed confusion. Aramis could not work out which was the correct emotion to show. It was not unusual for the King to think that people should know everything that was going on when clearly that was impossible. It was also a worry that a series of murders might have been happening without anyone knowing about it.

'Apparently, Poupart brought it to the attention of the police who did nothing initially - only the poor were being targeted to start with - but when the sons of two courtiers were killed and it came to the attention of the King…'

Treville trailed off shaking his head.

Porthos huffed, 'of course it'll be noticed when the rich start getting picked off…'

Treville sighed, 'it is, unfortunately, the way that we live.'

They all knew Porthos was not accusing anyone of anything, he was just stating a fact.

'What are we involved for? Surely this is a matter for the police?' asked Athos.

'The King does not believe his constables are capable. He has given me the job of catching this serial killer...and I am giving it to you four. You are relieved of your usual duties until such time as the killer or killers is caught. Use your connections to get whatever information you can-'

'I'll go to the Court,' said Porthos.

Aramis knew his friend meant the Court of Miracles, a place they all avoided unless absolutely necessary, even Porthos did not venture there often. But he, at least, knew many of the occupants and could generally pass unmolested.

'Thank you,' said Treville. 'I was going to suggest you start there. Some of the victims were from the area. We need to question the families and any witnesses.'

Treville handed Porthos one of the pieces of paper he was holding, Aramis could see a list of names and addresses written neatly on the paper. It shocked him to see how many names there were.

'I'll join you,' said d'Artagnan who had moved to look at the list, 'you might need protecting.'

'And you won't?' asked Porthos with a smile.

'Two sets of eyes will be better,' remarked Athos, 'even you have a few enemies Porthos.'

Porthos acknowledged the remark. They all knew that he had left some of the people from his former life and home with scores to settle.

'Athos,' Treville said, turning to the Musketeer still stood in front of him. 'I would like you to talk to the families of the two young courtiers, I've arranged for you to meet with them at the Palace in private. Try to find out what the young men were doing. It might help us to work out a motive or something about the killer. We know so little.'

Aramis took a couple of steps forward, 'whilst they are all working to their strengths, perhaps I will be best employed talking to Poupart? He's the one who made the connections-'

'Yes, Aramis, that would have been my next suggestion,' said Treville with a smile. 'I picked you four for a reason. Between you, I think we have all angles covered. At least initially. If more men are needed once we have more information, I will see that you have them. But for now, let's see what information can be gathered.'

Athos turned to Porthos and d'Artagnan, 'how long do you think you will need?'

Porthos glanced at the list again, before looking at d'Artagnan, 'at least two days, if we are to work our way through all of these families, but we may get something useful before that.'

Athos looked at Aramis, 'I'll visit Poupart first thing in the morning, depending on how busy he is and if he will let me look through those meticulous ledgers of his I could be a few hours at the mortuary.'

'Your meeting with the families is at noon tomorrow,' said Treville. 'Comtesse Beringer needed to be taken to her bed when the news of her son's death was broken to her. I hope she will be well enough to be interviewed by then.'

Athos nodded, 'we'll meet again tomorrow evening and decide if we need more time, perhaps to help with questioning the locals where the murders have been happening.'

They each nodded their agreement.

Porthos glanced at d'Artagnan, 'we can get a couple of hours in now?'

D'Artagnan nodded and moved towards the door.

'Thank you, gentlemen,' said Treville as they filed out.

MMMM

D'Artagnan was on his guard, every sense was heightened. The last time he had been in the Court of Miracles they had been looking for Porthos. It had been his first proper visit. They had spent most of it running around stopping the place from being destroyed. The locals had either scurried away from them or looked as though they would like to attack them. But this was different. Porthos walked with purpose. He had not paused at the unofficial threshold, where Paris finished and the Court began, he had simply walked into the darker, dimmer street. D'Artagnan knew it was an act, put on to make any inhabitants who thought they could attack the soldiers think again.

They had decided that they would stay in uniform, Porthos knew he would be recognised pretty quickly so there seemed no point in trying to enter in a clandestine manner. All he had said to d'Artagnan was not to wander off. D'Artagnan had thought about complaining about the apparent mollycoddling he had received from his friend but decided against it. Porthos was right. He knew, even as an armed and uniformed Musketeer, he would not stand a chance if the natives of the Court decided to gang up on him. There had probably already been numerous chances for him to be attacked already, and they had only walked a few hundred yards into Porthos' erstwhile domain.

He surreptitiously looked about him. There were many impoverished areas of the City, but the Court was different, it had taken on a life of its own. He knew there was a pecking order amongst the inhabitants, much like the rest of the city. Some homeless people were huddled in doorways and under stairs, their eyes following the two Musketeers as they passed by. Dirty faces turning to follow them, perhaps hoping for some chance to pickpocket them. But the pickpocketing would be done by the young boys and girls who ran feral on the streets, the ones that spilt into the wider city and caused havoc. They were organised gangs of youngsters. D'Artagnan glanced at Porthos and tried to imagine him as a boy, sneaking up on wealthy people and taking their money bags. He could not imagine his friend as anything but the honest man he now knew. But Porthos had once been one of those children. And those skills had proven useful countless times in his more honest work as a soldier.

D'Artagnan went back to looking about himself subtly. Dirty sheets were hanging over balconies and from ropes strung high across the streets, the effect making the already shadowy world of the Court more closed in, more claustrophobic.

'Stop drawing attention to yourself,' said Porthos quietly.

D'Artagnan had not been aware that he was. He knew that word would have spread about two Musketeers walking into the Court and they would be the focus of most of the inhabitants but d'Artagnan did not think he had done anything other than walk at Porthos' side.

'You're looking around too much. At least pretend you're not scared-'

'I'm not scared,' retorted d'Artagnan.

'Apprehensive?' suggested Porthos without looking at him.

D'Artagnan did not reply for a few seconds, annoyed at being found out by his friend. He was apprehensive, he would not go as far as to say he was scared, but he was not at ease in what was effectively a foreign world to him.

'Have you ever thought about coming back?'

Porthos did not respond for a few seconds.

'No,' he finally said. 'I'm a different person now. I don't belong here anymore. I will never forget my upbringing. I will never forget living here and the people. But I have moved on. This place has not.'

'You would have been the leader here,' remarked d'Artagnan, thinking back to their previous visit.

Porthos did not respond, he did not even react to the statement. D'Artagnan guessed the conversation was over. Porthos was looking ahead, he was not glancing around, he was not checking behind them, he was simply walking forward. Purposefully.

'Do you know where you're going?'

'No. They will find us,' replied Porthos before he stopped suddenly and looked ahead of them, a slight smile playing on his lips.

The woman, d'Artagnan remembered her. Flea. A slight, woman, petite next to Porthos, was standing a few yards ahead of them. She had a lacy shawl across her shoulders covering a pale green dress. The dress was relatively clean, although d'Artagnan did see a couple of patches sewn over rips. Nothing of value was discarded in the Court. Flea had her head slightly tilted to the side, an unasked question of the visitors.

Porthos took a couple of steps forward, his hands out to the sides. D'Artagnan followed a step behind, keeping his own hands away from his weapons. A gesture of goodwill to the people of the Court. They were on their land after all.

A big broad man stood a few yards behind flea, his arms crossed over his barrel-like chest. A bodyguard for the Queen. Flea was the leader now. Perhaps the people of the Court thought that Porthos had changed his mind and returned to retake the leadership role. A role that would have been his, had his life not taken him away from the City within a City.

Flea waited, Porthos would have to make the first move. He was the visitor.

'We're not here to cause any trouble,' he said, keeping his tone calm and even.

Flea remained silent as Porthos stopped a few feet from his former lover.

'There's been some killings. We think it's a serial killer. We're here to gather information.'

A smile played across Flea's lips, she stepped forward, close enough to Porthos that she was forced to look up. Despite her diminutive size, she was still the most dominating presence. D'Artagnan noticed a couple of other men watching from the shadows, their hands hovering at their sides, no doubt waiting for a signal that the soldiers were to be attacked. D'Artagnan hoped the signal would not be given.

Flea rested her hand on Porthos' arm, a dangerously seductive narrowing of her eyes accompanying the gesture, as she looked up at the Musketeer.

'And when men of wealth are killed your people suddenly take notice,' she said, arching an eyebrow slightly. 'The murders have been going on for weeks...but nothing was done.'

Porthos did not respond, d'Artagnan guessed he knew better than to argue with the truth. Flea looked at him for a few more seconds, options being weighed up, decisions made in her mind. D'Artagnan watched, fascinated as the small woman who wielded so much power decided what she would do with the man in front of her. They all knew she held both of their lives in her hands at that moment.

'Are you going to catch them?'

'Them?'

A broader smile formed on the Queen's lips, 'this is not the work of one man...or woman,' she said, 'this is the work of a group.'

Porthos nodded, 'it makes sense. We have very few details.'

D'Artagnan marvelled at how calm Porthos seemed.

Flea had reached her decision. It was obvious that Porthos was not going to challenge her and he was also not going to be with her. But the former inhabitant of the Court obviously had a use as far as Flea was concerned. She did not want murders taking place in her kingdom and the opportunity to deal with the situation had simply walked up to her.

'Ask your questions,' she said as she stepped back from Porthos, allowing her fingers to trail down his arm, 'you will be free to go where you need to...but I cannot guarantee your safety after dark.'

D'Artagnan wanted to remind them that it was not exactly daylight anywhere in the Court, but he thought better of it.

Porthos nodded his thanks. As she turned to go Flea paused, she turned back.

'I would start with Old Gerard; he lost his son to the killers.'

The Queen of the Court stretched out her lace-covered arm and pointed towards a small house with a rickety-looking door a few yards away. D'Artagnan saw a small boy watching them from the window of the house, the boy ducked down when he realised he had been spotted. When d'Artagnan looked back at Flea she had turned and was walking away. Porthos remained where he was until she had rounded a corner out of sight, her bodyguard a few feet behind her. The men in the shadows remained. D'Artagnan guessed the men were as much for their protection as spies for the Court's leader.

MMMM


	3. Chapter 3

Porthos watched Flea disappear. He schooled his expression. He did not want d'Artagnan to know how much seeing her had affected him. D'Artagnan had probably guessed that it was difficult for him to be back in the Court.

Although he had volunteered to visit his former home, mainly because he did not want to force the Captain to ask him, it was not something Porthos relished. He had been truthful when he had told d'Artagnan he had moved on. He would always fondly remember his younger days, with his mother, but as he grew up, he had always known he was not right for the Court. He despised some of the things he had done as a younger man. There were skills he had picked up that did prove useful, but some of the things he had done were not things he cared to remember.

He also did not care to remember his most recent visit. The Court might have saved him from a swift and unjust execution but the revelations and betrayals that had followed were not things he wanted to dwell on. The moment he had stepped over the invisible line that divided the Court from the City he had been struggling to push the memories away. He would be glad to leave the place.

The sooner they could gather all the information they could the better.

Porthos turned to d'Artagnan who he knew had been watching him with concern.

'Let's get on with it,' he said simply and strode towards the tatty house Flea had pointed out to them.

D'Artagnan fell into step beside him and did not question him about the exchange with Flea, Porthos was glad.

The door to the small house was opened before they reached it. An old man peered out. He was slightly bent, using a stick for support, grey wispy hair covered his head. He looked up at them with watery eyes.

'I'm sorry to disturb you, Gerard?' asked Porthos.

The old man nodded.

'You've come about Jean...vicious it was, just brutal what they did to him. Sarah's still too traumatised to speak.'

A small boy, probably no more than four years old was hovering just inside the doorway as the old man stepped out onto the street.

'Jean was my grandson really, I lost my son years ago, that's his boy. My great-grandson. It's just us and his mother now. Sarah's broken. She found the body, messieurs…'

Porthos hated to think what the poor wife had been confronted with. They had listened intently to the descriptions of the murder victims when the Captain had been briefing them. He could not imagine finding someone he loved in such a state.

'What can you tell us about the circumstances?' asked d'Artagnan. 'Anything might be useful. Did anyone see him taken? How long was it before he was found?'

Gerard thought for a moment, absentmindedly stroking the head of the small boy who had moved to stand next to his elderly relative, his small arms stretched around the old man's legs.

'He'd been out in the city, looking for scraps,' said Gerard, 'this would have been three weeks ago now. He didn't come home. I heard from Benini that there had been a scuffle a couple of streets from here. I went to see if Gerard was there, thinking he might have been robbed and left. But all I found was one of his boots...I knew it was his boot, the wear on the heel...he always wore one side down more than the other. I looked, I searched for three days…'

Gerard looked off into the distance, tears in his eyes. Porthos waited patiently for the man to continue, he did not want to rush him. If he was rushed, he was liable to miss details or make things up, perhaps without even realising it.

'Sarah went out to get water...I've never heard her scream. She didn't even cry out when she had this little one,' Gerard nodded toward the little boy, 'She's such a quiet thing. But she screamed when she found Gerard. I will never forget that scream, the loss, the pure anguish that poured from that poor, poor girl.'

'Where was he found?' asked Porthos quietly.

Gerard looked a little further down the road, he pointed with his stick, 'just around that corner...My grandson, dead. His body ripped to shreds.'

Gerard hugged the little boy close to him for a few seconds before looking at Porthos, a rage in his eyes.

'Find them, monsieur. Find them and deal with them.'

Gerard spoke firmly. Porthos nodded.

'We will, monsieur. We will,' he replied.

Gerard looked at them both for a few seconds before nodding and turning back into the house, guiding the boy in front of him. He slowly closed the door, Porthos could hear a latch being hooked. He doubted the latch would provide much security to the family.

Porthos shook his head, 'not much information, but it's a start.'

D'Artagnan was looking back along the road, 'let's have a look at the area where the body was found in. I doubt we'll find anything now, but we should at least check.'

Porthos allowed d'Artagnan to lead them along the narrow road. He glanced behind them, spotting the two men who had been watching them since they arrived. Porthos knew the men had orders from Flea not to interfere, but they would report back to her anything of interest. The sooner they left the better, as far as Porthos was concerned. They had other people to interview and places to search.

They reached the corner of the road. The narrower lane where the body would have been found was already quite dark. Porthos looked up realising the light was fading fast.

'Let's make this a brief search, I don't want us to outstay our welcome,' he said.

D'Artagnan nodded as he started to look around. They made short work of their search, pulling a few crates away from the stone walls, startling a few rats in the process. D'Artagnan pointed at a spot towards the side of the lane, blood still spattered the cobbles.

'It's not much though is it? I can't imagine the area would have been cleaned, and it's not rained heavily for the last couple of weeks,' remarked d'Artagnan.

'Jean was not killed here,' concluded Porthos. 'His body was dumped here. The injuries the victims get would bleed a lot.'

'There's nothing else we're going to find,' said d'Artagnan who was looking warily along the narrow lane. 'I think you're right. I think we should leave now.'

Porthos followed d'Artagnan's gaze. Lurking in a doorway were a couple of men, poised to attack them. Porthos guessed they were safe as long as their shadowy companions remained nearby. But he wanted to heed Flea's warning, he did not want to still be in the Court after dark.

As quickly as they could the two Musketeers retreated to safety. They were aware of being followed until they were safely out of the Court. Porthos had not realised how claustrophobic he had felt in the confines of the area he had once called home. Despite her dangers, the wider city seemed more welcoming to Porthos.

He knew he was no longer a member of the family of the Court of Miracles and he did not regret it for one moment.

D'Artagnan had pulled the list of addresses from his doublet, Porthos guessed his friend sensed that he did not want to dwell on the visit to the Court.

'We could probably visit here before it gets too late,' d'Artagnan said, pointing out another victim's address, Porthos knew the place was only a few minutes' walk from where they were.

'Yeah, let's try and get something...anything to go on. Poor Gerard couldn't give us very much.'

They walked in silence for a few minutes, the City was winding down for the night. Most of the markets were shut, the stallholders were finishing packing their wares away as the Musketeers walked past.

The next victim's house was not in much better shape than poor Gerard's humble home. Porthos banged on the wooden door as d'Artagnan stood back. Although they were no longer in the Court the threat of attack was still very real. There were several areas of Paris that even an armed and alert soldier would be remiss to walk through alone. Porthos trusted d'Artagnan to keep an eye out for them both as he talked to the family they had come to see. The only note they had regarding the man was that he was in his forties and his body had been claimed by his wife.

The door was opened by a young man who looked warily at Porthos.

'Is this the house of Madam Macon?'

The young man nodded, his eyes darting between Porthos and d'Artagnan who was standing a few yards away watching the road.

'We would like to speak to you about Monsieur Macon.'

'I'm Monsieur Macon,' said the young man.

'Claude,' came a slurred voice from behind him, 'they mean your father. You know that.'

The wary young man continued to stare at Porthos.

'I know that ma,' he said without looking around.

It was not until the young man was physically pushed aside by a large woman that Claude showed any emotion. He glared at his mother before slouching off, disappearing into the darkness of the house. Porthos guessed there was only one room, but with no fire lit, there was little light to penetrate its recesses.

'What do you want? My late husband can't owe you any money,' said the women.

She spoke brusquely, almost menacingly.

'We are seeking information madam,' said Porthos, trying to keep his tone civil.

'What information? My husband, he owed money, now I owe money. We'll be kicked out of her any day. We'll be on the streets soon. He was killed by someone who wanted money from him. What information could you possibly want?'

Porthos was beginning to get the impression he was not going to get much information from the woman.

'We believe your husband was murdered by a serial killer-'

'And?'

'And we are trying to catch them…'

The woman stared at him.

'...to stop more people being killed…'

The woman shifted slightly, her hand on the door, she glanced up and down the road.

'What do I care if other people get killed? If some of the bastards who keep hounding us for money get killed, I'd be happy. We don't know anything.'

The woman stepped back and closed the door firmly. Porthos stared at the closed door for a few seconds before he became aware of d'Artagnan next to him.

'Well, that went well…'

Porthos pulled an unappreciative face in response, 'not everyone grieves for a lost family member.'

'Let's get back,' said d'Artagnan, 'it's getting late, we can start afresh in the morning.'

Porthos nodded.

MMMM

'It's frustrating,' said d'Artagnan as they walked away, back to the garrison. 'All we know is that there has been a lot of murders, that the injuries are the same and that mainly poor people are being targeted.'

D'Artagnan shook his head, they had risked their lives in the Court of Miracles, Porthos had been forced to relive a horrific episode of his past and they had learned very little.

'Please, Messieurs?'

They both looked around, a small old woman was looking up at them both. A girl stood beside the woman shyly looking at them as well.

'I heard you talking about the murders. My son was taken by them as well. Unlike her,' the old woman glanced at the house where the unhelpful woman and her son lived, 'I would like to help you. I would like to prevent it from happening again.'

The old woman wavered slightly, instinctively d'Artagnan stepped forward offering his arm to her. She hooked her withered hand over his wrist and steadied herself.

'We only live a few doors down,' said the girl who d'Artagnan guessed was the woman's granddaughter.

She pointed a little further along the road to a door that appeared to have been painted recently. D'Artagnan nodded and began the slow walk with the old woman towards her home. As they walked the girl began to talk them through what had happened.

'My father, he would go to the docks and get what work he could each day. He was lucky, he worked hard, and the foremen knew him. He generally got a little work each week. When he didn't come home one night, we knew something was wrong. He wouldn't do that to us. He didn't drink and never got into trouble-'

'He was a good boy. He doted on Suzette,' said the old woman with a fond smile towards the girl.

Suzette smiled back at her grandmother.

'A couple of the boys that are always hanging around, they found him a few days later. Some of the local men covered him with a sack, but I could see the blood. When my mother died,' she paused for a few seconds, 'when my mother died her face was calm, serene. But Papa's face, I saw fear, even in death, he looked scared. Whatever was done to him...he was terrified.'

'Did anyone see him attacked?' asked d'Artagnan.

The old woman nodded. Both Musketeers listened to Suzette as she continued with renewed interest.

'The boys, they sleep under some stairs further along the road, they saw Papa come home. He was grabbed by a group of men in cloaks. They had their hoods up, the boys didn't see any faces - sorry - the men grabbed my Papa. He tried to fight them but there were too many, they carried him off… his body was found in the same place a few days later.'

The old woman moved to stand by her door, she stroked her fingers down the fresh paint.

'My boy,' she said sadly, 'he was a fit man, he would not have let them take him easily...he only painted this a couple of weeks ago. The foreman had paint left over, he gave it to him.'

D'Artagnan watched Porthos pull his money back from his pocket, he quietly placed it in Suzette's hand, she looked at him, blinking back tears.

'For your information...perhaps you could see to it that the lads that saw your father being taken get a couple of coins?'

Suzette nodded, clutching the money bag tightly, 'thank you, Monsieur,' she said.

'Please get the men who did this to my boy,' said the old woman looking at them both.

D'Artagnan nodded, 'we will.'

They walked away from the grieving women, passed the spot the body would have been found. There was no sign of any blood spatter or any evidence that anything had happened.

D'Artagnan glanced at Porthos who looked pensive.

'Hooded men,' he said, 'why hooded? What are they hiding? If they're going to kill the people they take it wouldn't matter-'

'They might be people that could be recognised by any witnesses...people who are well known,' suggested d'Artagnan.

Porthos nodded, 'wealthy people...businessmen... nobles?'

'We know it's a group of people,' mused d'Artagnan.

'I wonder why they are doing it. What are they getting out of it?' asked Porthos.

D'Artagnan did not have an answer. They had finally found some information out but still did not have any answers.

He suspected they had a lot more work to do before they were finished with the sordid affair.

MMMM


	4. Chapter 4

Athos looked at the gardens from the window, a couple of gardeners pushing wheelbarrows made their way across one of the immaculate lawns. He thought it would be better to be a gardener, tending to roses and pruning bushes than a soldier about to interview the families of two murder victims.

The door to the impressive room clicked open, Athos turned to face the grieving families as they were shown into the room. Two women, the mothers, Athos guessed were arm in arm, supporting each other. A man in his forties, the father to one of the victims followed them with a much younger man. The young man, his face flushed, was looking around wide-eyed.

Athos knew the families had been staying at the Palace. Comte Beringer had been visiting to assist in diplomatic discussions with some traders on behalf of the King. The Comte had brought his wife and two sons with him, Athos guessed to allow the young men to learn of courtly life.

The daughter-in-law of Vicomte Roux had been living at the Palace since her husband's death three years before. The Vicomte was an elderly man who would have left his title and estate to his grandson when his time came. The Vicomte had remained at his estate, allowing his son to act as his emissary before his untimely death. Since her husband's death, Madame Roux had remained at the Palace with her son.

Comte Beringer was doing his best to act as the de facto leader of the little group, but it was clear to Athos the man was very shocked at the loss of his oldest son and heir. The young man, and now the heir to the Beringer title, had a haunted look, a mixture of shock and something else. Athos was intrigued by the young man, he subtly watched him as the other family members walked further into the room.

The two women were looking at Athos, he realised he had to make the first move.

'Please,' he said, indicating the chairs and couch that had been arranged in a rough semi-circle with another chair facing them.

Athos disliked the formalness of the arrangement but had not been given an option before being shown to the room. The King had ordered that they were not to be disturbed, a footman would remain outside the closed door in case anything was needed.

The two women sat on the couch, the Vicomtesse dabbed at her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief.

'Comte Beringer,' said the Comte, reaching out to shake Athos' hand. 'My son, Robert,' the Comte indicated the young man before gesturing towards the two women, 'my wife, and Madame Roux.'

Each of the women managed to acknowledge Athos as they were introduced.

'Thank you for meeting me at what must be a very difficult time,' said Athos as he waited for Comte Beringer to sit.

Robert Beringer looked at the empty chair that was intended for him, he turned from it and wandered towards the windows. Athos watched him for a few seconds before turning back to Beringer who shook his head.

'Robert is a little overwhelmed. He has lost his brother and has to accept that he will be inheriting a title…'

Athos nodded his understanding as he took the seat opposite the grieving parents.

'Our sons were murdered,' said Comtesse Beringer, her voice cracking with emotion, 'they were murdered in the City. Please tell me you are going to find the people responsible?'

'That is what we intend to do Comtesse,' said Athos. 'If you will permit, I have some questions.'

'Anything,' said Madame Roux, speaking for the first time. 'If it helps to catch them. Ask us anything, Monsieur.'

Athos regarded the three nobles opposite him for a few seconds.

'My first question,' he said, 'is perhaps one that you will not be able to answer. Why were your sons in that area of Paris? We are certain that they were attacked in the same area that they were found.'

Madame Roux gasped.

Comtesse Beringer stared at him, 'really? I thought they had been attacked near the Palace and taken there. Why would he go there?'

She looked at her husband who shook his head, 'monsieur Athos,' he said, 'Claude and Simon, they were good men. They were polite, they knew their place here and knew what was expected of them. They had everything they could want. I… I cannot answer your question…'

He trailed off, looking back at the women who looked just as confused.

'Perhaps you could tell me about your sons?' asked Athos.

He hoped the parents of the murdered men would say something that would give him a clue as to why they visited an area of Paris that they clearly did not belong in. If the sons were as well behaved as the families thought, and Athos had not heard anything from any other courtiers to make him think the men were not of good standing, it made no sense for them to have gone to the part of Paris where they had been found. Although not the poorest area it was well below what the two young men would have been used to.

Madame Roux had gathered herself a little, she leaned forward, her handkerchief never far from her eyes as she spoke.

'Simon was a good boy,' she said, 'when his father died, he was a source of great strength and calm for me. My husband's death was sudden, unexpected. Overnight Simon became the heir to a considerable fortune. When my father-in-law dies Simon will inherit a large estate and considerable land…' she paused for a moment, she sniffed a couple of times. 'He won't inherit it now though...will he...he's gone.'

Athos watched silently as a wave of grief washed over the widow afresh. The poor woman had lost both her husband and her only son in a matter of years. Comtesse Beringer, reached for Madame Roux's hand, clutching it tightly. The women looked at each other for a few seconds before Madame Roux nodded. She took a couple of deep breaths before turning back to Athos.

'He and Claude were good friends; they were loved by everyone-'

'They were both popular amongst the courtiers,' interjected Comtesse Beringer, 'I think more than one of the ladies had their eyes on them both.' She smiled fondly for a few seconds, 'they would have made good husbands…'

Athos watched the grieving women playing out the lives their sons would never have in their minds.

Comte Beringer was looking towards his surviving son who had not moved from the window.

'Robert idolised his brother, but he is not a leader. He would have made a fine soldier though, I think he had ideas of joining your regiment,' the Comte nodded towards Athos' pauldron. 'But that's all gone now…'

Athos wondered if the Comte knew that he was talking to a man who had managed to give up his lands and title in favour of a life of soldiering.

'Simon would have been going to visit his grandfather next week, he would have been away for several months…'

Comtesse Beringer sniffed as she and Madame Roux continued to offer comfort to each other. Athos wondered what Madame Roux would do now that she had no family, at least the Beringer's had their second son to carry on the title. He glanced around at Robert who was standing with slightly slumped shoulders. Athos looked back at Comte Beringer who was also watching his son. Athos gestured that he would like to talk to the young man, Beringer nodded. Athos crossed the room to Robert who did not acknowledge him.

'I am sorry you have lost your brother,' said Athos.

Robert finally looked away from the window, tears falling on his cheeks. It was obvious he had been silently crying since he moved to stand away from his parents. Robert looked guilty.

He sniffed a few times before he spoke, his words halting and quiet.

'I know why they went…'

Athos was aware of the parents all taking notice. He glanced back at them and shook his head, if Robert was about to tell him something useful, he did not want Comte Beringer to dissuade him.

'I heard them talking, the afternoon before they disappeared. They were talking about what it would be like to be a normal person. They wondered what the working classes talked about. What they did in the taverns…' Robert looked around at the two mothers in the room, 'they were both in on it. Neither of them led the other on.'

Athos was impressed with the words of reassurance to his mother and Madame Roux, Robert did not want one family to blame the other for potentially leading their son astray.

'They wanted to go to a tavern and see what happened...they wanted to be with a woman…'

Both the mothers gasped. Comte Beringer looked away for a few seconds as Robert continued.

'Simon said he wanted to know what to do when he was married. They were adamant they wanted clean women,' Robert looked a little confused as he related what he had heard, 'Claude said he had only read about it-'

Comte Beringer sighed, 'we lead sheltered lives, Monsieur Athos,' he said, 'but boys talk, half-truths and rumours abound amongst the younger members of the court.'

Athos understood.

'Why didn't you tell us sooner?' asked Madame Roux, not unkindly.

Robert looked at the floor.

'I didn't want to be in trouble for eavesdropping...and I didn't want Claude to think I'd betrayed him…'

The room was silent for a few seconds before Comte Beringer rose from his chair. He walked up to his surviving son. Robert looked up at his father, a slight trepidation in his eyes.

'I'm sorry,' he said.

Beringer shook his head, 'it's alright son,' he said as he pulled the young man into a tight embrace.

Athos knew there was nothing else he would be able to learn from the grieving families. Robert's revelation at least told him why the young men were in the area where they had been attacked. He still could not understand why two men, who would have looked out of place in the area, had been attacked by the killers that had, up to that point, only prayed on the poor and destitute. As he thanked the families for their time, he knew they still had many unanswered questions.

MMMM

Aramis allowed Poupart to help him shrug out of his doublet, his weapons belts already lay over the back of one of the chairs.

'Don't want you getting this messed up, monsieur,' Poupart said as he folded the jacket over the chair.

He handed Aramis an apron before turning to the two bodies that had been laid out for them. Aramis had managed to send word the previous evening that he wanted to look at the mortuary keepers' ledgers. Poupart had informed him as he walked down the steps into his domain that he could do better than simply show him a list of names and descriptions. Poupart had managed to keep hold of two of the recent victims. The cool weather meant there was not such a rush to get the bodies disposed of. Aramis had thanked him, glancing at the covered bodies as he made his way through the mortuary.

'When did these two die?' asked Aramis as he looked the two men over.

Poupart was roughly folding the two sheets up as he replied, 'three days ago. Although unlike the two nobles I do not think these two were together. They just happen to have been taken at the same time or within hours of each other. They do not look the sort that would associate with one another.'

Aramis could see what Poupart meant. One of the deceased men was young, barely twenty he guessed. The young man would be considered handsome and was clearly not a labourer. Aramis suspected the man sold himself for money. He disliked that anyone would find themselves in such desperate circumstances.

The other man was significantly older, he was probably in his sixties and would have been struggling to find any kind of work, a glance at his hands told Aramis the man had been a labourer. Calloused fingers and palms showed years of hard physical work with scars across the man's arms. But signs of age had crept into the joints on the man's fingers, one hand appeared stuck in a permanent claw-like position.

'I think,' said Poupart who was watching Aramis, 'that we can guess what that one was,' he pointed at the younger man, 'and I'm going to guess this man was a butcher or perhaps fishmonger?'

'Although not recently, from the looks of him,' remarked Aramis, pointing at the older man's hands.

'No,' agreed Poupart who pointed out additional injuries to the man's leg. 'I doubt he could stand straight anymore, an accident, his leg has been badly broken and not set properly. He would not have been quick on his feet…'

Aramis felt along the dead man's leg feeling the lumps and bumps of the break.

'He was probably in constant pain,' he remarked.

Poupart stood back for a few minutes as Aramis looked the two men over. He looked at the superficial wounds and bruises both men had. Marks on their arms where they had been grabbed showed fingers would have been tightly holding them. The young man was slight and probably easy to manipulate. The older man, although of a larger build, would have been weak due to his age and the pain he would have been in.

'None of the victims have been sexually assaulted,' stated Poupart as Aramis continued to look at the two men, feeling around their heads for any obvious injuries. 'And the women were treated in exactly the same manner. Bruises around the arms where they have been firmly grabbed and stabbed near the heart.'

Aramis stood back from the old man as he finished his assessments, he looked up at Poupart who continued.

'The wound, a single stab wound, it would be enough to kill them, but not straight away. They were all stabbed just to the side of the heart, the murderer knew what they were doing. They would have been alive when the organs were removed...probably unconscious...hopefully unconscious,' said Poupart with a disapproving shake of his head.

'They weren't killed where they were found, were they? We've looked at some of the sites and there's not enough blood.'

Poupart shook his head, 'no, I think they were killed elsewhere and then dumped. Odd that they were all dumped near to where they were taken from...it's almost as if the killers wanted the families to have the bodies back.'

'Were they all this...fresh?' asked Aramis.

Poupart chuckled, 'yes they were all fresh. I think they're killed and dumped quite quickly.'

'From what we understand,' said Aramis, 'they're missing for a few days. These two do not look as though they have been starved in that time.'

'No, none of them have been neglected from that point of view. They were cared for until their deaths...all very morbid.'

Aramis leaned over the young man, looking at the wounds on his chest.

'What about the missing organs?'

'Clean cuts not ripped out. At first, when I saw the wounds I wondered if it was feral dogs, but no, the organs are cut out. The heart is taken each time, sometimes other organs. It is done neatly, considering the victim was probably still breathing as it was done...horrible.'

Aramis guessed it took a lot to shake the normally unflappable Poupart, but the man seemed a little thrown by the series of murders.

'It's a shame,' remarked Poupart, 'that it took those two young men from the Palace being killed to get this noticed. I see death every day, I see murder frequently, but this is not something I have seen before. Over and over again I have received the poor, the destitute, the unfortunate...and nobody cared that they were all being killed in the same way. But those two lads made them sit up and take notice...a shame.'

Aramis nodded. He and his friends were of the same opinion. Once the scale of the series of murders had become apparent the four of them had been shocked. Porthos and d'Artagnan had returned late the previous evening with tales of families ripped apart by the horrific acts. The only difference being that the families were low born, inconsequential to the wealthy. Aramis knew that Athos was interviewing the families of the two nobles as he examined the bodies of the latest poor victims.

'I have the ledgers if you still want to look at them,' said Poupart when Aramis stepped back from the body of the old man.

'Please,' replead Aramis, 'although I doubt I will learn anything new.'

'You never know,' said Poupart, 'take your time, I have a couple of new arrivals to deal with. Although these are natural deaths.'

Aramis watched Poupart cover the murder victims and move off to deal with the new bodies, further along the room. He did not envy the man, his own work could be grim at times, but it took a particular mentality to be surrounded by death as constantly as Poupart was.

MMMM


	5. Chapter 5

D'Artagnan reached for the door of the tavern. He could not remember if it was the third or fourth, he had visited that afternoon. He did know he was probably not going to have time to visit many more before they got too busy.

When Athos had returned from the Palace, he had related to Porthos and himself what he had learned from the bereaved families. It had not taken the three of them long to decide that they needed to find out which tavern the young men had visited. If they had even got as far as a tavern before they were taken from the streets. They decided to split up and start with areas that would have been more tempting to the young men. Porthos had remarked that he doubted they would have gone to the very poor areas. The young men would have picked areas where the prostitutes were less likely to be riddled with diseases. They probably would have preferred to visit a tavern that catered to travellers and tradesmen rather than the very lowest members of society.

D'Artagnan had questioned the owners of each of the taverns in the area he had chosen to search. None of the men remembered the two nobles. The wives of the tavern keepers and the serving girls did not remember them either. D'Artagnan hoped that either Athos or Porthos were having more luck than him.

The final tavern he was going to try was one he had never visited before; it was a little too far away from the garrison and in the opposite direction to the Palace. They would not naturally come across it.

The main room was large and airy compared to a lot of the drinking establishments in the city. A couple of smaller rooms led off the main room, d'Artagnan guessed the tavern keeper could hire out the areas to groups who wanted a bit of privacy. A roaring fire dominated the room, keeping even the furthest corners warm. D'Artagnan wondered if people came in from the cold and never wanted to leave again. A good way to part them from their money. Two big dogs were stretched out in front of the fire, the remains of a couple of large bones lying next to them. The shaggy hounds watched as d'Artagnan walked across the room with sleepy eyes. They looked tame enough, but he knew they were probably trained to defend the property and their master if he commanded them to.

The keeper was a man in his fifties, he was short and stout, in his youth he would probably have been a well built and a capable man. D'Artagnan suspected the man could still throw out a rowdy customer if he needed to. He was watching d'Artagnan with keen piercing grey eyes as he rubbed a cloth over a tankard.

'What can I get you, monsieur?' he asked as d'Artagnan reached the bar.

'Information, if you have it,' replied d'Artagnan as he reached for his money bag.

The tavern keeper shook his head, 'I was a soldier once young man, I will not take money from you. If I have information, I will give it freely.'

The man collected two cups and poured wine into each of them, pushing one across to d'Artagnan who accepted the offered drink with a nod of thanks.

After glancing around the room and assessing that the only customers were deep in their cups d'Artagnan decided that he could speak freely without causing alarm. He was sure the former soldier in front of him would not become hysterical at the news there had been two murders in the vicinity.

'We are investigating the murders of two young men. They were found near here. We're trying to establish their movements before they were attacked.'

'Go on,' said the tavern keeper, 'I serve a lot of people, but I like to think I am still observant. I may remember them.'

D'Artagnan nodded, 'young men, early twenties. One had sandy coloured hair, not blond, but not brown. The other had dark brown hair. Both were cleanly shaven. A little shorter than me-'

'But taller than me?' interjected the tavern keeper with a chuckle.

D'Artagnan nodded with a smile as he took a drink of wine.

The tavern keeper looked off into the distance for a few seconds before looking back at d'Artagnan.

'Would this have been about a week ago?'

D'Artagnan nodded, daring to hope that he might have found the right tavern.

'I do remember a couple of lads coming in. They looked out of place from the start. I know what my customers should look like. I have regulars but I do get people passing through as well...but these two...they looked wrong. They were trying to fit in, but they looked like startled rabbits if I'm honest. None of my regulars paid them any attention. They paid their way, they weren't causing any problems to start with, so I left them to it.'

'Not causing problems to start with?' questioned d'Artagnan.

The tavern keeper grinned, 'a couple of slightly older lads came in, they were already a bit drunk. One of your two lads bumped into one of them, there was some pushing and shoving. Both of your lads ended up on the floor, one of them had wine spilt over him. Myself and a couple of the regulars threw all four of them out. The older two wandered off, probably to another pub. Your two, stumbled off along the road. It was quiet. I guessed they would sleep it off in a doorway then slink home once they'd sobered up a bit. Wealthy, were they? Seeking a bit of excitement amongst the normal folk?'

D'Artagnan nodded, he did not see any point in denying what was fairly obvious from the astute man.

'Stupid boys. What a waste,' said the man with a shake of his head. 'They'd have looked pretty messy by the time they left; one had a bloody nose. They were both dusty from where they had been on the floor, and I wouldn't be surprised if they ended up falling over a few times as they walked away.'

D'Artagnan glanced at the door, he was about to speak again but the keeper beat him to it.

'They walked off that way,' he said pointing along the road. They left here alive; I can tell you that much. And the two lads that were fighting them went the other way. I doubt they were involved in the attack.'

'You have been a great help, monsieur,' said d'Artagnan before finishing his wine.

With a nod, the tavern-keeper took the cup and wandered off to talk to a man who had arrived a couple of minutes before and was waiting further along the bar to be served. D'Artagnan retraced his steps, passed the sleepy dogs and back out onto the street.

MMMM

The court physician was sat at his desk writing quickly. Aramis stood by the partly open door for several seconds before he decided Lemay was not going to notice him. The doctor was thoroughly engrossed in his work, he dipped the quill in the ink and continued writing. Aramis shifted slightly causing the doctor to finally look up. Lemay smiled, realising he had been caught unaware.

'Sorry, Aramis, I get very involved in writing up my findings sometimes,' he said, 'am I needed?'

'There is no medical emergency for you to deal with, it's about the murders…'

Aramis saw the recognition in the doctor's eyes. News of the murders had spread around the Palace quickly; some courtiers were a little more worried than others. Aramis wondered if the good doctor had been needed to help calm some of the more worried members of the court.

'Did you want me to look at the bodies? I doubt I would be able to discern any more than you. I hate to say it Aramis, but you have probably dealt with more death than I have. Although not in these circumstances,' finished the doctor.

Lemay indicated a chair on the other side of his desk. Aramis ventured further into the doctor's room, taking off his hat as he walked. It was not the first time he had consulted with the doctor; he knew Lemay was forward-thinking, even if he did also use the more generally accepted methods for dealing with ailments.

Aramis took the offered seat and waited for Lemay to indicate that he was ready to listen. The doctor spent a few moments moving aside the papers he had been working on and clearing a bit of space in front of him. Aramis wondered if the doctor needed to clear the space in order to clear his mind. Lemay leaned forward on the large desk his arms resting on the edge, his attention fully on Aramis.

Aramis related all that they knew, he explained how Poupart had first noticed the link between the deaths a few weeks ago but that it had not been fully investigated at the time. He explained what Porthos and d'Artagnan had found out during their investigations in the poorer areas of the city. He told Lemay about Athos' interview with the bereaved nobles that morning and finally, he talked him through his own findings at the mortuary before he turned up at the doctor's threshold.

Lemay listened carefully, taking in the details. As he talked Aramis watched Lemay pull a fresh sheet of paper towards him and dip the quill in the ink, he did not take notes, merely wrote the odd word down. Aramis guessed Lemay did not want to interrupt him but had questions to ask when he had finished.

'We know they're not being killed where they are found. It's odd that they are taken and returned to the same area. Most of the victims are young, but there are a few older people. Most of the victims are male, but there are a few women as well. The only pattern we have found is that they are poor...apart from the two nobles. We are sure they were only taken by accident. The fight they got into and being thrown out of the tavern, they would have perhaps been mistaken for genuinely poor people, not wealthy people wearing plain clothes.'

Aramis waited whilst Lemay made a few notes on his paper which now had lots of scribbled words across it. The doctor looked at the paper for a few seconds before dropping the quill back into the inkpot. He looked up at Aramis.

'Do you have any ideas?' Lemay asked.

Aramis did have an idea about what could be happening, but he hoped and prayed that he was wrong. He nodded once. The doctor smiled with a nod of his own. He rose from the desk and walked across the room to the shelves that spread across one wall. A mixture of papers, documents and books filled the high shelves. Lemay ran his fingers across a row of old leather-bound books before stopping at one. He eased the book from the shelf, treating it carefully. Intrigued Aramis joined him as he lay the book down on a side table.

'Is this what you were thinking?' asked Lemay as he slowly opened the book and gently turned a few of the pages over.

Aramis looked at the words on the pages and the illustrations. He nodded.

'Obviously, I only have this as a reference. I had the misfortune to run into a group a few years ago and needed to find out about them,' Lemay paused shaking his head, 'it was not pleasant. If this is what you are dealing with, tread lightly. Be wary. This could be bigger than you first thought.'

Aramis nodded, he did not like the idea that the doctor was thinking along the same lines as he was. He had hoped he was wrong, but after looking at some of the detailed drawings in the book the doctor had laid out in front of him, Aramis knew he was right.

MMMM

For the second time in as many days, they gathered in the Captain's office. Treville was leaning against his desk watching them. He had been updated on bits and pieces of their investigation up to that point but had not had a full report. He waited until d'Artagnan had shut the door before looking between them, waiting for one of them to start. D'Artagnan stepped forward. Porthos nodded that he was happy for the younger man to tell Treville what had happened to them the night before and that morning.

Porthos was ready to intercede if d'Artagnan missed anything out but other than not mentioning the obvious wariness Porthos had when back in the Court of Miracle nothing was omitted. D'Artagnan went onto regale the Captain of their work that morning, back in the poorer areas of the City. Treville listened intently to the stories of the people they had interviewed. The same story over and over again. A loved one being taken, missing for several days before being returned, dead and mutilated.

D'Artagnan glanced at Athos who took up the work of updating their leader. They had briefly talked about the noble families and the revelation that the young men had been in the area by choice. Treville shook his head as he listened to d'Artagnan take up the sorry tale of the two nobles and how they met their deaths. Porthos agreed with the Captain, the young men had lost their lives thanks to their own youthful curiosity.

Porthos glanced across to Aramis who had not spoken during the first part of the update. He knew Aramis had taken on the grim task of visiting the mortuary. He had told them Poupart had shown him the two most recent victims. Porthos was glad he had not gone with Aramis, he was not a squeamish man, but examining murder victims was not something he would choose to do.

Aramis described what he had found at the mortuary in detail. Porthos watched as the other men in the room reacted. Athos remained unreadable, d'Artagnan looked a little green and Treville looked disgusted.

'After I had finished looking at the ledgers at the mortuary,' Aramis said, 'I visited Lemay at the Palace.'

'What good will that do, they're dead, even he can't resurrect people,' interjected Porthos with a wry chuckle.

Aramis managed a smile before continuing, 'I wanted to discuss a theory I have with him…'

Porthos glanced at Athos, d'Artagnan and Treville, they were each as intrigued as he was.

'...I hoped I was wrong, but Lemay agrees with me,' continued Aramis, who seemed oddly reticent to continue.

'What are you thinking Aramis?' asked Treville. 'I am willing to consider anything at this stage if it helps us to find the killers.'

'I... we, think that the killers are a group who worship…' Aramis paused, trying to find the best way to say what he needed to, 'that worship false gods. Or Demons. I'm not sure what exactly and neither was Lemay. But they could be following some sort of Demonic ritual. I don't know enough about such practices. Lemay had a little knowledge but not enough to really help…'

Aramis trailed off. Porthos wondered if he was expecting his idea to be dismissed as nonsense. D'Artagnan broke the silence.

'It is ritualistic, isn't it? It's the same thing over and over again. The hearts being taken is...creepy...but ritualistic, particularly the careful removal…'

They looked at each other for a few seconds, letting the revelation sink in.

'I was thinking about the returning of the bodies,' said Aramis, 'that could be part of whatever this group is doing. Perhaps they have to return the...shell of their offering for whatever it is they are doing to work...I don't know. It's all just guesswork really.'

Porthos watched Treville straighten up a little, 'Aramis,' he said, 'I think you have hit on something there. Horrible as it might be. I've come across it a couple of times by accident. Once in the aftermath of a bloody battle a small group of us stumbled across the remains of some kind of activity...it was...grim to say the least.'

Aramis looked a little vindicated, his idea was not being dismissed as nonsense.

'The poor have been taken because they're less likely to be missed,' suggested Porthos, 'if it weren't for those two lads from the Palace, we wouldn't be taking the notice we are...would we?'

Treville shook his head, 'a sorry state of affairs,' he agreed.

They all looked at each other, the question of how to proceed did not need to be asked, but it needed to be answered.

MMMM


	6. Chapter 6

Treville was impressed with his men. They had done what he had asked of them and more. He knew it could not have been easy for Porthos to return to the Court of Miracles to gain information, but he and d'Artagnan had surpassed themselves with the work they had done the previous evening and that morning. Athos, ever the diplomat, despite a lack of interest in such work, had managed to gather some crucial information. Without the extra knowledge of what the two unfortunate courtiers had been up to, they would not have concluded that they were the exception that had proven the rule. Only the poor were being taken. And Aramis, he had come up with a theory, and after gaining a second opinion presented it to the rest of them, despite his own misgivings.

Now Treville hoped the same four men could come up with a method to bring the murderers to justice and prevent any more killings. The thought that innocent people were being effectively sacrificed for someone else's gain was abhorrent to Treville. He knew his men were of the same opinion.

Treville wondered if Aramis had been undecided about saying his theory out loud. The Musketeer had looked as though he was expecting to be laughed at, but his friends had all looked at each other. The theory was sound. It was abhorrent but it fitted. He knew little of such groups, but he knew they existed, in dark corners of society. And he also knew that there were some people of high regard involved in such practices.

He thought about the time he had come across the remnants of a ritual. He and the men he was with were shocked at the sight. It was not something he ever wished to see again.

A thought occurred to him. He wondered if the organisation of the series of murders which, if Aramis was right, were actually sacrifices was being done by someone in authority or someone who wished to have authority and was perhaps only a few steps away.

They had considered what the murderers were getting out of the killings, Athos suggested they wanted power. The suggestion fitted with Treville's thoughts that the leader of the group was wealthy.

Were the killings being carried out by or for a courtier? Someone close to the King? Someone who perhaps did not approve of the King.

Athos had come to the same conclusion when he suggested that the killers were intent on gaining power.

'They think that by making these barbaric offerings to their otherworldly god or gods, their demons, that they will become higher beings themselves,' suggested Athos. 'What are the chances, if this has indeed been going on for some time, that some of the people involved are courtiers? What if they are people who do not agree with the way the King runs the country? What if they think they can do better?'

Aramis nodded, 'from the little I read in the book that Lemay had, the rituals and incantations and whatever else they do...it's all for gain and usually power or money, or both.'

'They may be attacking the poor and destitute,' said Porthos, voicing what they all thought, 'but their ultimate aim, might be the King.'

D'Artagnan, who was trying to make sense of what he was hearing asked, 'how can this be happening? Has no one at the Palace noticed that another courtier is practising this...these rituals?'

'They're all so wrapped up in fawning to the King that they probably don't even notice each other. There's a lot goes on behind closed doors,' said Aramis. 'Outwardly their reactions to one another are very different from what they really think or care.'

'Politics within politics?' suggested Porthos. 'They're all just looking out for themselves, trying to be first in the pecking order. Most would gladly belittle another, but they don't really know what is going on. Not if it does not affect them directly.'

'To think that a murderer, potentially several working together, is at the Palace with the Royal family as we speak. Thinking that their misguided ritual is going to help them,' said Athos, shaking his head.

There would be a leader, and men following that leader. Now that they understood the sheer scale of the series of murders Treville was sure there was a group carrying them out. The leader would have to have authority and wealth. If he was paying other men to abduct the victims and hold them for a few days before they were killed, they would also need somewhere for that to happen. It had to be somewhere secure, but not where they could be easily found, or heard. Treville doubted all the victims went quietly to their deaths.

The five Musketeers all agreed with the theories that had been put to them. Aramis almost looked guilty for coming up with the probable reason for the series of murders.

'How are we going to find them and stop them?' asked Treville, looking at each man in turn.

There was silence for a few seconds as they all thought about the problem and any possible solutions.

'We cannot simply watch the poorer areas of the city,' said Athos, 'there is not the manpower to do so. And time is not on our side, the murders are frequent. We may already be too late to save the next victim or victims.'

'If the leader or one of the leaders of this group of people is a courtier or someone at the Palace could we use that to our advantage?' asked d'Artagnan.

'Not sure how,' said Porthos with a shake of his head, 'the obvious answer is for one of us to get caught by them. I'm the obvious candidate, nobody at the Palace pays attention to me, they wouldn't recognise me-'

Aramis interrupted his friend, 'but all the victims have been white...the ones that we know of…'

Porthos saw Aramis' point and chuckled, 'lucky me,' he said.

Treville could see the merit in Porthos' idea but did not like the thought of one of his men putting themselves into that much danger. It was true that each of them was more than capable of escaping most awkward situations, but a well-organised group would perhaps not give them the opportunity to escape. They would mount observations but if they lost sight of the volunteer victim there would be little they could do to help them.

Aramis was looking pensive, Treville knew he had hit on an idea.

'Perhaps we could use the fact that the leader might be at the Palace to our advantage,' he said with a nod to d'Artagnan, 'and perhaps Porthos could infiltrate the group in a different manner…'

Treville glanced at the others, they were all paying rapt attention to Aramis as he slowly explained his plan. The Musketeer Captain could tell Aramis was ironing out issues as he went.

'This group, they need money. Our wealthy leader, whoever he is, can't have bottomless pockets. And I bet he would probably be happy for some extra financial assistance...and perhaps an exotic foreign influence to help his sacrifices continue.'

Porthos scowled at Aramis, 'I am neither exotic or foreign,' he said.

Aramis smiled, 'but they won't know that. You, my friend, will be visiting Paris to seek a...a trade agreement with the King…' Aramis paused, looking into the distance for a few seconds, 'the talks aren't going to plan so you will threaten to get your revenge on the King. A threat that is made very publicly…'

'Are you insane,' said Porthos, 'I won't be able to pull that off. This sounds like something that Athos would be better at doing.'

'You said yourself, that you are not noticed at the Palace. I am unfortunately known by some of the courtiers because of my past,' Athos said.

'D'Artagnan is too young...sorry but you are,' said Aramis, when d'Artagnan looked a little put out by the statement.

'What about you then?' said Porthos, looking at Aramis.

Aramis smiled, 'I might be able to get away with it, but I think I might have a different role to play-'

'You would need a servant, a guide perhaps,' said Treville, who had cottoned onto Aramis' plan, 'Aramis would be your valet. A manservant who speaks several other languages. A sign of your wealth.'

Aramis nodded, 'several languages, maybe going a bit far, Captain-'

'But enough of several languages for what you would need to convince someone who did not speak another language. Enough to get by. Enough to help your master,' Treville nodded towards Porthos, 'communicate with the people of the countries he visited. And you can work together to sell the idea that Porthos is out for revenge on the King...and the two of you will be able to watch each other's backs.'

Aramis nodded with a smile. Porthos did not look sure.

'You've done this sort of thing before, Porthos,' said Treville, 'and it would be far better to infiltrate the group this way than as a potential victim.'

Treville could see the indecision in his Musketeers eyes. He sympathised with the man. They were asking a lot of him, but he had every faith that Porthos would carry the facade off well.

'We will need to get the King to help us, which I know he will. Particularly if I convince him this is his plan.'

They all chuckled.

'Once you are in, you can assess the situation, gather as much information as you can before reporting back with locations and numbers,' said Treville.

Porthos nodded.

'We will probably also need proof that they are performing these demonic rituals and worshipping false gods,' said Athos. 'If the people at the top are nobles the King will not be able to deal with them without proof. What that proof will be is difficult to say. We have so little to go on. This is essentially a guess at what is happening. A good guess, but a guess nonetheless.'

Aramis nodded, 'I am sure we will know it when we find it. We may find that nothing comes of it. You could have a disagreement with the King, and no one will approach you.'

'But they might. And it's worth a shot,' said d'Artagnan.

Porthos nodded, looking surer of the plan as they talked, 'all we can do is try. I think I can pretend to be wealthy for a day or two.'

Treville looked at his men, pleased that they had come up with a reasonable plan.

'D'Artagnan, do you think you could talk to Constance; she may know where we can get some clothes befitting a wealthy foreigner. And we will need to source some very plain clothes for Aramis as well, and a plain hat.'

Treville noticed the small smirk on Porthos' face as Aramis looked a little put out.

'Don't you go getting used to having a valet,' said Aramis when he saw Porthos' reaction.

Porthos smiled, 'I will try not to,' he said with mock sincerity.

'If the King agrees,' said Treville, 'we will put the plan into place tomorrow. The sooner the better, before any more unfortunate souls are taken.'

MMMM

D'Artagnan and Athos walked slowly along the quiet street. At a loss for what they could do to help, they had decided to return to the area where the attacks had taken place in the hope of finding someone who may have witnessed the abductions. Any extra information they could gather would help Porthos and Aramis when they infiltrated the group.

'Do you think it will work?' asked d'Artagnan as he paused to look under a rickety stairway.

'I hope so,' replied Athos, 'we still do not really have much of an idea what is going on. Aramis' suggestion that the group behind the murders are devil worshipers does seem to fit, but it is only one idea, albeit the only one we have managed to come up with.'

D'Artagnan satisfied himself that there was no one sheltering under the stairway and straightened up. They continued on their way. It felt odd to be walking around in plain cloaks and with only minimal weapons. They had decided that if they wanted to engage the locals in conversation they needed to look as though they belonged in the area. Athos had found them both dark woollen cloaks and plain gillet's to wear. He had decided that they would only carry their parrying daggers, tucked out of sight. They had not been lucky in their search for witnesses. Athos had already parted with most of the money he had brought with him. He had felt obliged to give each street dweller a few coins for their time. D'Artagnan wondered if they would reach a point when he had to pull out his own, somewhat lighter, money bag.

One beggar. A young girl, whose otherwise pretty face was marred by a deep scar had managed to point them towards an area where two of the attacks had taken place. Athos had looked around the area but found nothing of interest. D'Artagnan had not expected their trip to the poor area to really bring them any joy, but they had felt a little redundant when Porthos and Aramis had gone off to strategies.

'These clothes will be useful tomorrow,' said Athos after a while, 'we can follow Porthos and Aramis without drawing attention to ourselves.'

'That only works if we get the chance,' replied d'Artagnan, 'we have no idea if Porthos will even be approached. There are so many unknowns. Nothing might happen...but something might…'

They continued walking in silence for a few minutes. Each man pausing occasionally to check an area for anyone sleeping rough on the street. It was a cold night; most homeless people would have found shelter somewhere. D'Artagnan was beginning to think they were wasting their time.

'I think we should return to the gari-'

Athos' words were interrupted by a moan. They both looked across to the alleyway where they had heard the pained cry. Cautiously both Musketeers walked forward. D'Artagnan struggled not to reach for his dagger. The need to defend himself never far from his mind. Athos reached the entrance to the alleyway first, he ventured a few feet into it. D'Artagnan followed, looking intently into the darkness. A scraping sound, further along, drew them further away from the street. Both men were on full alert, they knew it could be a trick to get them to leave the relative safety of the street. But they could not ignore a cry for help. If someone was injured and they did nothing, neither man would be able to forgive themselves.

The attack was well planned. D'Artagnan could do nothing as he watched Athos being grabbed from behind by two cloaked and hooded figures. Athos was struck across the back of the head with a stout stick, falling limply to the ground.

D'Artagnan tried to reach his friend but was held back by another two men, he tried to slip his hand into his cloak to grab at his main gauche, which was so tantalisingly close. He wished he had pulled it free early; he should not have stepped into the dark alleyway without the weapon in his hand. But they had been trying to appear unthreatening to the locals. They had not wanted to look like soldiers. Their disguise had clearly worked.

He managed to backhand one of the men who had hold of him and twist free of the second man. But his balance had been thrown by the move, he was distracted by the fact Athos was unconscious. There were too many attackers. D'Artagnan could not remember where they were, which alleyway they had walked along. Could he run along the alleyway? Was it a dead end? But he could not abandon Athos. His indecision cost him. His momentary hesitation was his undoing. He cursed himself. He could not help Athos.

The men managed to grab him firmly as he stumbled to the ground, the uneven cobbles catching him out in the dimly lit alleyway.

The attack had been planned; they had walked straight into it. D'Artagnan knew that Athos, when he came around, would be as annoyed as he was that they had been caught so easily. He wondered if the other victims of the demon-worshipping group had been caught under similar circumstances. Most people would not ignore a plea for help, a moan of pain. Some would be looking for an unfortunate person to steal from, others would want to help them. The thoughts flashed through his mind as he struggled against the hooded men.

He pushed at them, he managed to punch one, but it was not enough. The two men that had attacked Athos joined the two that were trying to subdue him. One kicked his feet out from under him. A swift punch to his face left him stunned for a few seconds. He was dropped by the man who had restrained him. Unable to coordinate his arms and legs d'Artagnan could do nothing to prevent a second hard punch.

His last thought as the darkness took him was to wonder if Porthos and Aramis' mission of infiltration had become a rescue mission. He was sure the men who had grabbed them were the devil worshippers and he and Athos were to be their next victims.

MMMM


	7. Chapter 7

_The following day…_

Treville sat at the table, his back straight, hands on his knees ready to push up to stand. He stared at the garrison gate for a few seconds before allowing his gaze to fall on Porthos who was pacing back and forth. Each time he turned to face the gate he paused for a second before resuming his walk. The Musketeer's doublet and weapons were hooked up near the stable, ready to be grabbed at a moment's notice. Porthos was ready for action, ready to deal with whatever had happened.

Aramis was sat on the opposite side of the table methodically cleaning his guns, Treville was fairly sure each gun had been cleaned at least three times. The marksman's slow steady movements belied a tension that the Captain knew was there. Aramis was also itching for action. Waiting had never been Aramis' strong point.

Movement at the gate had all three men looking over, Treville was almost to his feet when he realised it was a couple of Musketeers returning from patrol. They nodded a greeting before disappearing into the mess. The men were oblivious to the turmoil their fellow soldiers were going through. Treville settled back on the bench, Porthos resumed his pacing, and Aramis continued cleaning.

It had not been until they were about to retire to their beds that they realised Athos and d'Artagnan had not returned from their somewhat redundant trip to the area that most of the murder victims had been found. They had managed to sleep for a few hours, hoping the missing men would return during the night. Treville had not been surprised to find both Porthos and Aramis already holding a silent vigil when he had risen a couple of hours before.

Treville knew they were all thinking the same thing. He had quietly talked to three of the commissioned men and sent them, in full uniform, to perform a cursory search with instructions not to make it too obvious they were searching for anyone.

Now they were waiting for their return.

Treville was sure they would return without Athos and d'Artagnan.

Treville was sure Athos and d'Artagnan, dressed plainly and out late in the poor area, had been taken by the demon worshippers. He knew their plan, the only plan they had, would have to be enacted sooner rather than later. They were already on borrowed time.

The tall figure of Luc walking back into the garrison finally had Treville and Aramis rise from the bench. Porthos turned and walked across purposefully stopping a couple of feet from the young Musketeer as Barbotin and Pierre caught up with him. The three men who had been sent out to search had come up with nothing.

'No sign, Captain,' said Pierre with a sigh and a glance at both Porthos and Aramis.

'We spoke to a young girl who said she had seen them, they asked her some questions and she had directed them to the site where one of the victims was found,' said Barbotin, 'she said she followed them at a distance…'

Treville knew what his Musketeer was going to say, knew the pause was because he did not want it to become real.

'...she saw them taken.'

Porthos took a deep breath, trying to contain his anger. Aramis looked away for a few seconds.

'A group of hooded men. They were both knocked about, probably knocked unconscious, she wasn't sure,' continued Pierre. 'She didn't see where they were taken, she ran and hid.'

Treville nodded, 'thank you. Luc can you get the carriage ready that we've borrowed, the clothes you need have been put in your room. We'll get them away within the hour.'

Luc nodded and moved off with Pierre towards the back of the garrison. Barbotin waited for his orders.

Aramis glanced towards the infirmary, 'we are going to get them back,' he said, 'but we don't know what state they'll be in. Make sure everything is as ready as it can be.'

Barbotin nodded and walked purposefully towards the infirmary.

'Get ready,' said Treville as he turned to Porthos and Aramis. 'I'll warn the King that we have brought the plan forward a few hours.'

Both men nodded and turned towards the sleeping quarters. Treville watched them go. He pushed down the worry. Two of his men were missing and he was about to put two men in danger to rescue them.

He prayed the plan would work and that they would be on time.

MMMM

Athos slowly opened his eyes. He was looking at stone. Clean, scrubbed flagstones. He tried to remember how he had ended up lying on the cool flagstones. His awareness slowly returned to him. The flicker of torches above him made him move his head slightly. He knew he had been hit on the back of the head, he winced as he moved. He did not trust himself to sit up. The room he was lying in had several torches lighting it, their flames bright. Slowly moving his head to the side, he took in a bit more of the room. There were no windows that he could see. A faint earthy smell told him they were underground, perhaps a cellar. But it was the cleanest, and most brightly lit, cellar he had ever been in. The stone walls appeared to have been washed, they were rough, but there was no sign of dirt, crumbling or dankness. A big heavy-looking wooden door was the only point of entrance or exit from the room.

He moved his hand slightly, a chink of metal and a weight on his wrist told him he was chained up. The manacle was not restrictive, he had enough movement to be able to lie down but he would not be able to free himself of it without help. Focusing on the lock of the manacle he knew that it could be picked but not by him, not one-handed. The manacles and the chain shone, the flames from the torches dancing in the reflection on the metal. The restraints were new.

The coolness of the flagstones made him shiver. Athos was a little disturbed to find he had been stripped of his outer clothing, left in only his braies. The heat from the torches made his lack of clothing bearable. Leaving him without the perceived safety of his clothing made him feel vulnerable. His leathers would not stop the ball from a gun or a firm swipe or thrust of a sword, but they would absorb some of the force of a punch. Without them, his enemy would know he was unarmed. Wearing no boots meant he had to watch where he stepped. If he were to be thrown outside, he would suffer from the chilled Autumnal temperatures.

Athos thought back to what had been happening; to the last thing he remembered. They had been walking cautiously along an alleyway, he recalled. The classic misdirection of a cry for help.

D'Artagnan.

The young Musketeer had been a couple of paces ahead of him when he had been attacked.

Slowly pushing himself up, Athos looked around the cellar. There was nothing else in the room, apart from himself and a very still d'Artagnan lying a few feet away, similarly stripped to his underclothes.

Holding his breath for a few seconds Athos waited to see the rise and fall of his friend's chest. When he saw the younger man take a breath Athos was relieved. D'Artagnan did not look injured, other than a bruise on his cheek and a few bruises around his upper arms. Athos glanced at his own arms and realised he was similarly afflicted. He remembered Aramis saying that all the victims had been firmly manhandled. Even unconscious their captors were careful not to lose their pray.

Athos managed to sit up a bit straighter, he looked at the manacles around his wrists, a chain ran from each manacle, keeping him attached to the wall behind him. There may have been enough links in the chain to give him the slack he would need to stand up or lie down, but he knew he would not be able to reach the unconscious man chained to the opposite wall.

He shuffled as close as he could to d'Artagnan before pausing for a few seconds as the room spun. He took a few careful slow breaths.

D'Artagnan was lying on his side, his back against the rough stone wall.

'D'Artagnan?' he said.

His voice sounded odd in the cool empty stone room.

But the effect it had on his friend was relieving. D'Artagnan moved slightly a quiet moan escaping his lips. The Musketeer's eyes fluttered open, he blinked a few times and straightened his head.

'Take a moment,' said Athos. 'Can you remember what happened?'

'Can you?'

Athos smiled, 'I remember enough.'

D'Artagnan nodded slowly, 'they set us up.'

Athos nodded. He watched as d'Artagnan looked around the room and slowly pushed himself up to sit, leaning back against the wall, shuffling a couple of times to make himself as comfortable as he was going to get. Once Athos was satisfied d'Artagnan was fully awake he moved back to his side of the cellar and mirrored him. He watched as d'Artagnan pulled one knee up and rested his manacled wrist on it, looking intently at the lock.

'A two-handed job I think,' remarked Athos.

D'Artagnan nodded, 'any idea where we are?'

Athos shook his head, 'I only woke up a few minutes ago.'

'I guess Porthos' plan has been put into action anyway...although I'm not sure I remember volunteering for it.'

Athos knew their situation was desperate. They were helpless. He hated to admit it. They had no weapons, no idea where they were and no obvious means of escape. Both of them were suffering from the effects of their enforced unconsciousness. Athos could tell d'Artagnan was still unfocused, he was gazing at the wall a few feet to Athos left, but he did not seem to be looking at anything specific.

'We have a few days,' said d'Artagnan after a few minutes. 'They were all kept alive for a few days...and none of them were hurt or molested before they were killed…'

'A small mercy,' remarked Athos. 'We must bide our time. We must be sure when we make our move. We must be decisive. I doubt we will get a second chance.'

D'Artagnan nodded as he finally managed to focus on him, the worry about their situation obvious to him.

'They'll still do the other part of the plan, won't they?'

Athos nodded, 'they will.'

MMMM

Porthos allowed Aramis to help him into the long robe-like coat, the flowing material hung loosely.

'Don't fancy fighting in this,' said Porthos, 'too much cloth to get in the way.'

'If it comes to a fight,' said Aramis, 'I think it will be alright for you to slip out of it again.'

Porthos managed a smile, 'shame we aren't taking more weapons then.'

Treville had told them both to limit their weaponry. Porthos' trader was supposed to be in Paris on business, not seeking a war. Aramis had looked lovingly at his guns for a few seconds before Treville picked them up and took them away with him. Porthos had picked up a smaller sword than he was used to and slipped it into his new ornate weapon belt. Aramis had pushed a plain gun into his own belt. The clothes they now wore were not hard-wearing uniforms, they were for show. Or at least they were in Porthos' case. Aramis was wearing a very plain pair of brown breeches and an equally plain dark brown doublet. The plain hat he had borrowed from one of the cadets had a wide brim which he could pull down low to hide his face. Porthos' clothes, whilst not particularly garish were bright in comparison. His act as a wealthy foreign businessman seeking a trade agreement would be helped by his attire. The tradesman he was pretending to be had money to spend on his outfits.

Aramis had stowed a couple of slim daggers into their boots, and a basic medical kit in the bag he would carry on his belt.

Porthos watched his friend as he checked his attire, he noted Aramis' hands going to where he would normally have his gun slipped into his belt and feel for his bandolier. Porthos knew Aramis felt underdressed, but he did look the part with his usually wayward hair combed back and tidy. Aramis looked quite different.

Porthos knew he looked different, not that it would make any difference at the palace, he would not have been recognised anyway. He was amazed at how much simply changing their clothing and the way they carried themselves seemed to affect their outward personalities.

'Ready?' asked Porthos when Aramis finally seemed satisfied with his appearance.

Aramis nodded once, 'we've got a couple of days. We can't rush this. We'll only have one shot.'

Porthos agreed, he watched Aramis walk to the door of the room they shared at the garrison, he opened it and stood back. Porthos understood, the sooner they got into character, at least outwardly, the better. He walked past Aramis without even acknowledging him.

They slipped through the garrison and out a rarely used rear entrance. Treville had ensured that there was no one around. The fewer people who knew what they were doing the better. The carriage they would use to get to the palace was of a reasonable standard, Luc had hired it and the horses earlier that day. The tall Musketeer in plain livery was sat in the coachman's seat awaiting instructions. His only part was to get them to the Palace. Porthos and Aramis planned to walk away, giving the murderers ample opportunity to approach them if they did not do so within the confines of the Palace grounds.

Aramis opened the carriage door for Porthos who climbed in, he watched as Aramis nodded to Luc before climbing in himself and settling opposite him. They looked at each other.

'I hope they're being treated well…' said Porthos, 'I hate this, everything hinges on this plan working and our theory being correct.'

'My theory,' countered Aramis.

'It's a good theory,' replied Porthos, realising what he had implied, 'I just wish we weren't now having to completely rely on you being correct.'

'Me too,' said Aramis, 'if I'm wrong, we will have wasted valuable time.'

Porthos sighed, he knew Aramis was right, but they had no other plan in place and, although they had the luxury of at least a couple of days to find their friends, that time would run out quickly enough.

MMMM

He had no idea how long they had sat there, in their clean stone cellar. The torches had continued to burn brightly but were not nearing the point that they would start to sputter out. D'Artagnan had leaned his head back and shut his eyes after a few minutes of silence, Athos did not think he had fallen asleep.

There was nothing for either of them to say. They knew that if the chance to fight back arrived they would take it. They also knew that if it came to it, one of them would have to leave the other behind. It made no sense for both of them to be killed. If one of them could escape and get help the other stood a small chance of being rescued. And if bringing an end to the hell that the killers had brought meant their own demise it was a sacrifice either of them was willing to make.

But not if they could avoid it.

Athos heard a muffled noise from the other side of the heavy door. A small hatch at the top of the door opened outwards, a man peered in briefly before closing the hatch again. A couple of bolts being drawn back and a key turning in a lock followed. Athos glanced at d'Artagnan who was watching with an apprehension he could not hide. Athos felt the same, he could feel his breathing speeding up as he watched the door being pulled open, it swung with ease, no creak or squeak. Well-oiled and well maintained, rather like their manacles.

Two men entered the cellar. They wore simple clothes, breeches and a plain shirt, no hint of flamboyance about them. The clothes were not worn or patched, they were relatively new. The men, in their thirties, were tall, at least his height. They had neatly cut hair and beards. Both men carried guns, held pointed down at their sides. Athos guessed that as they were both firmly restrained there was no need to aim the guns, the threat was enough. The two men stepped to either side of the door. They were followed by two younger men, who wore equally simple clothing. The younger men each carried a tray. They approached both the captive men, laying the trays on the floor a couple of feet away from them, but within reach.

Neither Athos nor d'Artagnan moved. D'Artagnan looked at the tray his expression one of confusion. On the tray was arranged a cup of what looked like wine, an apple which had been cut into sections, and what Athos guessed was liver.

The young men stepped back and left the room. Athos looked up at the gunman closest to him. The man pointed at the tray of food with his gun.

'Eat it,' he said, 'or you will be force-fed... we don't want to do that, but we will.'

'Why have we been brought here?' asked d'Artagnan with feigned innocence.

The gunman looked at him.

'Eat the food, your questions will be answered.'

D'Artagnan was about to speak again but the second gunman took a small step forward, raising his gun towards him. D'Artagnan thought better of asking another question. He looked down, doing his best to look cowed by the gunman. Athos was impressed, if they made themselves look weak their captors might lower their guard. Apparently satisfied, the gunmen retreated from the room, the heavy door pushed shut after them. The bolts shot across and the key turned to lock them back in.

Athos looked at the food and wine, he shuffled forward and reached for the tray pulling it back to him. A scraping noise across the cellar told him d'Artagnan had done the same thing.

'I doubt they would poison us…' said Athos as he picked up the cup and sniffed the wine. He could not detect anything other than wine.

'They'd know if we just poured the wine away,' remarked d'Artagnan looking at the spotless flagstones.

Athos watched the younger man raise the cup to his lips and take a swig. They both looked at each other for a few seconds. D'Artagnan pulled a face.

'Unless it's slow-acting poison I think it's fine.'

Athos nodded and picked up a slice of the apple, as with the wine he sniffed it and examined it carefully before taking a bite. The sweet fruit tasted good, fresh and juicy, he nodded towards d'Artagnan. They both picked up a piece of meat, both sniffed it and looked at it hard. As one they tasted it.

'Never really liked liver,' said d'Artagnan as he swallowed it.

'But I am sure you would rather eat it willingly than be forced to eat it,' stated Athos.

'This has to have something to do with the sacrifice,' mused d'Artagnan as he picked up a second piece of the liver.

Athos suspected d'Artagnan wanted to eat the food he liked least first and take away the taste with the apple and the wine. They both ate the food in silence, Athos could not help examining each piece before biting into it. They knew the other victims had been kept alive for a few days, and they would have been fed in that time. Athos wondered how many had refused to eat the food and been held down and forced to eat. Some of the poorest victims would have eaten the offered food willingly.

D'Artagnan had finished eating, he leaned back and sipped from the cup of wine.

Athos wondered how long it would be before they had their next visit.

MMMM


	8. Chapter 8

Treville took up his place to the side of the King, far enough back to give the monarch the privacy he needed to conduct his work without the men he was talking to feeling crowded, but close enough to intercede if he was needed. The King saw Treville as an unofficial advisor, the Musketeer Captain did not begrudge the roll, even if Richelieu did. The Cardinal was conspicuous by his absence, a visit to a holy site a few hours away meant the man would miss what Treville suspected would be something he would not approve of.

The King had listened to Treville the previous evening as he had outlined what they knew. He had been pleased that they had come up with a reasonable explanation but also shown the correct amount of shock and disgust at the same time. Treville had carefully given the King all the component parts of the plan and allowed him to put them together to come up with the idea himself. Louis had been only too happy to play his part.

The Musketeer Captain looked at the people in the room, some hanging back further than others. Some of the courtiers sought the Kings attention, others seemed content to simply be in the same room as the monarch. There were a couple of small groups of three or four courtiers talking quietly and glancing about, the ladies were looking at each other, taking in what each was wearing and who they were talking to. The men were doing much the same, they were all seeking a chance to be closer to the King, to gain his favour. The King was notoriously contrary, a courtier might find favour one day but be cast off for another the next.

Treville knew most of the courtiers by name, he was on speaking terms with many. Occasionally some courtiers looked down on him as a simple soldier, but most knew that he had the ear of the King and it would, perhaps, not be the best attempt at personal advancement to be dismissive of the Musketeer Captain.

He looked at the courtiers with a suspicious eye. They had concluded that the leader or leaders of the demon-worshipping killers were amongst their number. An unpleasant thought. The gathered courtiers were a mixed bunch, Treville scanned the ones he knew well and dismissed most of them. They were either, in the Captain's opinion, too honest or incapable of leading a clandestine group of very organised murderers.

Comte Duguay and Duc Lamar were talking quietly a few yards from him, Duguay, a short stout man of fifty would be incapable, thought Treville. The man had managed to lose as much money as he made with his gambling. The King tolerated the Comte due to his good connections with the trade ships to the Americas.

Lamar, on the other hand, was a wily man, he had his beady eyes on most of the senior courtiers and Treville had once caught his valet in an area of the Palace that he should not have been. The man had stumbled through a poor excuse for his actions before Treville had sent him on his way. But Lamar had a good relationship with the King and seemed to agree with the way he ruled. Was it in his interests to try to gain power?

Considering the methods they suspected the murderers were using, taking people to use as sacrifices, Treville scanned the room again. He knew a few of the courtiers were very devout, attending Church daily and not partaking in any extra activities to damage their relationship with the Lord. He dismissed a few more from his potential list of suspects.

The bereaved father Comte Beringer was stood with a couple of other nobles, Paget and Thibault. Beringer was still struggling to come to terms with the loss of his eldest son. Thibault had his hand on Beringer's arm, offering words of comfort. Paget appeared sympathetic but somehow a little standoffish.

Comte Paget was a man on the rise. He had inherited a modest estate and wasted no time in acquiring extra land. The man in his early forties was married with two young sons. His place was assured. Treville could not think of a reason why he would want to gain more power by murdering people in a misguided ritual. But Treville did not know the man well enough to completely dismiss him.

Thibault, however, was old, positively ancient. He walked with a cane and generally had a footman assist him up and down stairs. The King was always patient with the man and had on occasion allowed him the comfort of a chair whilst in the throne room, a privilege given rarely. Treville had often enjoyed long conversations with Thibault, the Vicomte was always interested in what the Musketeers were doing. Treville did not believe the old nobleman would wish to go against his King.

The King's valet approached him and leaned in to speak to him quietly. The King nodded before glancing very briefly at Treville who nodded subtly.

The facade was about to begin.

'Excuse me, gentlemen,' said the King with a casual wave of his hand, 'I have a visitor, with whom I hope to do business. Business that will benefit all of France.'

The King made sure everyone was paying attention to him, even if they were not actively watching him. Louis may have been self-centred and dismissive of people, but he knew how to be a monarch. He knew how to lead people; he knew how to command attention. Treville knew the King would have no issue with his part in their little play. Most of his life had been an act.

The doors were opened for the businessman. Treville took in the sight of his Musketeers as they entered. He was impressed, he knew it was Porthos and Aramis, but he was sure none of the courtiers recognised them. A quick glance around the room saw no glimpse of recognition, no double-take, or curious stare. Most of the courtiers were looking at Porthos as he confidently walked up to the King stopping the prescribed few yards away to show his respects with a bow.

Porthos was dressed in clothes which were a lot brighter than Treville had ever seen him. Soldiers frequently needed to hide in the shadows, not stand out from the crowd. Treville was used to his men dressed in dark clothes, black and browns generally. Porthos cut a dashing figure in his flowing clothes as he swept into the room.

Aramis on the other hand, Treville doubted the courtiers were even aware he was there. He had stopped just inside the door, face tilted down slightly, hands held behind his back, akin to a footman. His plain clothes and unusually tidy hair made him almost unrecognisable. Treville watched the ladies, usually, the female courtiers liked to watch the Musketeers, particularly Aramis, as they went by. None of the ladies had even glanced at the newcomer's valet. Aramis was invisible to the room.

The act started with the King making a few casual remarks about the businessman's homeland, Porthos' replies were well thought out. He had come up with a sound back story. Treville was glad they had at least had the chance to come up with a backstory before they had been forced to start the charade. Despite knowing that time was of the essence Porthos and Aramis had continued to conduct themselves professionally.

Treville continued to watch the courtiers, he only paid passing attention to the conversation between the businessman who was trying to negotiate a fledgeling trade deal and the monarch who was rapidly losing interest.

Comte Duguay looked a little annoyed that someone was offering trade to the monarch. Comte Lamar was listening intently to every word; he had crept forward a little to watch and listen unimpeded.

Beringer and Paget were watching, Treville could tell that Beringer was not interested. Paget had glanced at the Comte a few times before leading him back a few yards. The move, Treville suspected, intended to take the somewhat emotional man out of sight of the King. Treville decided he could probably dismiss Paget as a suspect, perhaps his earlier standoffishness was merely him not wishing to crowd the obviously upset Beringer.

Vicomte Thibault was leaning heavily on his stick, he had turned his head slightly. Treville knew the man was deaf, he was trying to listen to the conversation. Treville guessed if he had felt confident to move forward without assistance he would have done.

A young noble, who had recently inherited his title, Joubert, Treville thought his name was, moved quietly to Thibault's side and offered the old man his arm to lean on. Treville wondered if the youngster was trying to curry favour with the established courtiers. A wise move thought Treville.

He returned his attention to the King and Porthos whose conversation was beginning to heat up. The King was obviously not interested in what Porthos' tradesman was offering. As the conversation reached its end Porthos fired off his crucial line. If the man responsible for the murders was in the room, he would react, Treville was sure. He noted that Aramis had raised his head and was subtly glancing around, all eyes were on Porthos and the King, no one was looking at the apparently insubordinate valet.

'I have offered you a good deal, majesty,' said Porthos with barely disguised anger, 'I have offered you more than others from my land would have done. And you throw it back at me. You are nothing to me or my people. I will see to it that we do not trade with you. We will take our wears to a monarch who is prepared to trade fairly.'

'I doubt you have enough sway in your land,' replied the King with mounting anger of his own, venom in his eyes that Treville had a hard time believing was not real, 'your monarch should have sent a better negotiator.'

Porthos took a couple of steps forward, stopping when the soldiers around the room, including Treville, responded in kind.

'You have not heard the last of this, I will not be talked to like that be some pathetic excuse for a King who does not know how to run a country or treat his people. I will have my revenge on you.'

Porthos turned on his heels and marched towards the doors. Aramis rushed ahead of him and pushed one of the doormen out of the way, before opening the door for his approaching master. The four red guardsmen closest to the door moved forward to detain the retreating tradesman. Treville caught the Kings eye and shook his head.

'Let the man go,' said the King.

The red guardsmen stopped, turning to the King.

'A pathetic tradesman does not cause me to fear for my safety.'

As the King allowed a few of the courtiers to fawn around him Treville observed the rest. He scanned the room carefully and realised two of the courtiers were missing.

MMMM

Porthos swept along the corridor. Aramis pretended he was struggling to keep up, rushing along after him. A few courtiers, the ones not in the King's inner circle at that particular moment moved aside to let the angry tradesman pass. The argument between Porthos and the King would probably have been audible to the people in the corridor outside. They had wanted to draw attention to themselves.

Aramis had pulled his hat lower as he followed Porthos. He wanted to be sure he was not recognised, but no one was looking at him in any case. All eyes were on the retreating foreigner.

They reached the grand entrance to the Palace. Porthos walked purposefully passed the carriage which was waiting for them to one side.

'I want to walk for a while,' said Porthos firmly and loudly enough for those close enough to hear, 'I do not need to be cooped up in that infernal contraption.'

'But it might be dangerous, monsieur,' said Aramis, making sure his words were hesitant as if he was scared to speak out.

'Be quiet,' remonstrated Porthos as he continued to walk towards the city streets, 'you do not decide when it is dangerous. Nothing here is dangerous.'

Aramis glanced up at Luc who was watching the facade unfold, they nodded subtly to one another. The plan was for Luc to wait for a few minutes and then take the carriage off as if returning to wherever Porthos was staying in the city. If anyone spoke to him, he was going to tell them the carriage was hired, and he knew nothing about the foreigner and was merely doing as he was told.

The streets were still busy, the markets in full swing. Porthos walked through the more expensive markets and along the streets where the finer shops were located. Aramis kept a subtle eye out for anyone approaching Porthos, he was sure they were being followed but could not look around too obviously. He had to keep to his character, that of the oppressed valet, who probably would have preferred to leave the service of the rich foreigner.

Porthos turned into a quieter road, a deliberate move, whoever the leader was would probably not want to be seen talking to the tradesman. Aramis followed in Porthos' wake. After a few minutes, Aramis began to wonder if he had been completely wrong in his guess that the murders were ritualistic and that the power-hunger leader, if they existed, would want to recruit a disillusioned foreign tradesman. He began to look about, hoping to spot someone approaching them.

Aramis spotted Vicomte Thibault ahead of them. Something did not seem quite right to Aramis, but he could not work out what at that moment. Thibault was a man he recognised, he was always polite and thanked anyone who assisted him. The old noble was frail, but still seemed to have his wits about him. The grey-haired man beckoned to Porthos, who slowed his walk and changed direction to meet him. Aramis followed a few paces behind, stopping a few yards from the pair when Porthos reached Thibault.

'You were at the Palace,' said Porthos.

Aramis watched Thibault carefully, searching for any sign that that man recognised Porthos as a Musketeer. The old man showed no hint that he knew Porthos. It was true that Aramis could not recall a specific time when Porthos had interacted with the man. Was their elaborate ruse going to pay off? Was Thibault the man they were looking for? Aramis had to hide his shock at the thought that the old and frail man who could not walk up stairs unaided was behind a series of murders and perhaps the head of a group of devil worshippers.

Thibault looked around, he glanced at Aramis for a few seconds, but again did not appear to recognise him.

'I believe we can be of mutual service to one another,' said Thibault.

Porthos did not respond. He looked Thibault up and down warily.

'I agree with your views about the King,' continued Thibault. 'He is weak-willed and does not allow the ruling classes to...rule. He could do so much more to gain benefit for this country. The trades you were trying to negotiate for example. He should have accepted them.'

Thibault looked about them for a few seconds. They were not completely alone but no one was within hearing distance. The old man waved his hand slightly. Aramis watched as a much younger man stepped out of the nearest alleyway, a narrow road separating two expensive houses. The young man was another courtier, Aramis could not remember his name, but he knew the man was popular with the ladies at the Palace.

'We are making changes,' said the young man whose expensive clothes announced his status to anyone who happened to look at him.

The man was clearly not afraid to let others know he was well off. Some of the nobles dressed down a little if they were going out into the city, not wishing to advertise their status to any ne'er do wells. But this young man had no such qualms.

'What sort of changes? How are you making changes?' asked Porthos now adding a slight tone of impatience.

'I take it you are a follower of your countries religions?'

Porthos nodded not wishing to elaborate. Aramis knew why. Porthos could not elaborate. They suspected that, if Aramis' theory was correct, the origin of the demon-worshipping might be an offshoot of an ancient religion. One from an area in or around Persia or Western Africa. None of them had enough knowledge to convincingly talk about the areas. Porthos was going to have to pretend he knew what was going on.

'We follow the old religions; we believe we are getting close to making real changes. But we live in unenlightened times-'

'What is it that you want?' asked Porthos with unhidden exasperation.

'Money,' said Thibault simply, 'to do what we do here,' he slowly swept his hand around taking in the area, 'it is expensive. We cannot be open about our work. Our work will stabilise France. With your help monsieur, we can finish our work. We will oust the King and finally make this country work for its leaders. For the leaders...for us.'

Thibault looked at Porthos for a few seconds before continuing.

'Allow us to take you to our sacred space. Let us show you how far we have come and how far we can go with a little...assistance.'

Porthos made a show of looking around.

'What will I gain?'

Thibault smiled, his lips thinning as he did so, 'ah monsieur, you are indeed a shrewd businessman...trade. Your country will be our partner, we will trade all that we can with you.'

Porthos pretended to think for a moment before nodding.

The younger man looked towards Aramis.

'Your valet, is he well behaved? We do not tolerate disobedience from the working classes. It is dealt with swiftly and harshly. If he steps out of line you will be expected to discipline him.'

Without missing a beat Porthos replied, 'he knows his place.'

Porthos did not even look around at Aramis as he spoke, Aramis looked down as if he were remembering a previous time where he had been disciplined by his master.

'We have to be discreet, we cannot be open,' said Thibault, 'unlike the more open life you would be used to.'

Aramis marvelled at how easily the two rich men seemed to have accepted them. As the men led Porthos towards the alleyway the younger man had been waiting in, Aramis followed at a respectful distance. He turned into the alleyway to find another couple of men. The men were big and broad, they carried weapons, but were not wielding them.

'Please accept my apology,' said Thibault, 'I am sure you are trustworthy monsieur, but we have to remain clandestine.'

The two big men, who were looking both Porthos and Aramis over carefully were holding black cloths, Thibault took one of the cloths and turned to Porthos. Aramis realised they were to be blindfolded. He looked further along the alleyway, spotting a plain carriage.

Porthos did not react as Thibault reached up with the blindfold. The second big man approached Aramis who managed to react with just enough fear to show his subservience but not enough to cause Thibault or the other wealthy man to feel he had forgotten his place as a lowly servant.

Aramis disliked the loss of his sight, he felt a hand on his arm guiding him forward, he raised his hands in front of him as he was walked along the alleyway.

For the first time, he wished his theory was wrong. But at the same time, he hoped they were a step closer to rescuing their missing brothers.

Their plan was working, but it was about to get a lot more difficult.

MMMM


	9. Chapter 9

They had come en masse a few minutes before. Neither Musketeer had been given much of a chance to react. Athos suspected the men had approached the heavy wooden door quietly to take them by surprise. The door had been pushed open quickly, several of the plainly dressed men had entered the room. Athos recognised the two gunmen that had been in the room when their food was delivered earlier. Athos was not sure how long ago the food had been delivered. The concept of time in the windowless room was difficult to gauge. The torches had gone down a little but the type of wood used to make them would affect how long that took.

Athos scrambled up to stand, he found himself backing away from the men. He was not above admitting to being frightened. They had been abducted by a group of murderers after all. They were chained up and had no weapons.

They were helpless.

Two of the men grabbed him, pushing him firmly against the wall, he tried not to resist, but could not help flinching away a little. He glanced across the room and watched d'Artagnan receive the same treatment.

Another man walked into the room. He was tall and wiry, his grey hair and narrow face making him look quite sinister. He held himself very straight and firm. The man had a commanding stature. At the back of Athos' mind, he wondered if he recognised the man, but he could not place him.

The man stopped a couple of yards from him, he looked Athos up and down before nodding to the two men holding him. What followed was a humiliating examination. Athos found himself being manipulated as the grey-haired man looked at his body. Athos had his arms pulled out to the side and twisted around. His head was pushed up and then from side to side. He was then forced around to face the wall, pinned firmly against it. At one point the grey-haired man stroked his fingers along Athos' arm. Athos could not help trying to pull away, his reward for the action was for the man holding him to hold him even more firmly, bruisingly so. After what felt like an eternity the grip on his arms was loosened, the feeling of the hands pushing him into the wall was removed from his back. He was aware of the men stepping away from him. Athos slowly turned around.

The tall, grey-haired, man had moved to look at d'Artagnan who was watching the man very carefully. Athos watched as the same examination was carried out on his friend. D'Artagnan's limbs were manipulated, the grey-haired man stepped in closer a couple of times to look at the younger man's body before stepping away. When d'Artagnan was turned to face the wall, he tried to pull away but was pushed firmly forward causing him to huff as the air was knocked from him. It took d'Artagnan a few seconds to turn around when the men released him.

They looked at each other, the worry and fear reflected in each other's eyes.

The grey-haired man stood in the middle of the room, he looked at them each in turn before beckoning another man forward. The young man, dressed in a shirt and breeches, although of better quality than the plainly dressed men spoke quietly to the grey-haired man glancing between the two captives. They appeared to make a decision. The young man backed off respectfully as the older man turned to d'Artagnan.

'You are blessed to have a lack of markings to your skin. You are pure of body and heart. You will bring great hope to our cause.'

D'Artagnan, his eyes wide, was breathing fast. Athos could guess what was going through his friend's mind.

The grey-haired man turned to Athos. The younger man stepped forward again. A further conversation was begun. Athos looked at d'Artagnan again as a few of the words from the quiet conversation could be heard. They could pick out the words 'scarred' and 'not as pure'. Athos guessed that when the grey-haired man had touched his arm he was feeling the scar there. A scar he had received years before in battle. Athos knew there were other scars across his body from his years in service to the King. He was a soldier it was only to be expected. D'Artagnan was young in service and had not had time to build up a collection of war wounds and battle scars. Athos wondered if the two men in the middle of the room were deciding if he was worth sacrificing in their ritual. Athos found it hard to believe that the poor people that had been taken would have been unmarked. Perhaps the people taken were assessed as they both had been. Perhaps some were expected to bring better results than others.

'He may be of some use. We'll take the younger one first.'

The grey-haired man walked from the room, his head held high.

'Prepare him,' said the younger man with a nod towards d'Artagnan.

The men that had been holding Athos crossed the room to d'Artagnan who was clearly not going to be taken quietly. Athos watched the younger well-dressed man shake his head in disgust before leaving the room.

D'Artagnan pulled away from the men as much as his restraints would allow. He tried to kick out at them but was easily subdued, they pinned him effectively as ropes were used to bind his wrists together before the manacles were removed. When it became apparent to d'Artagnan that he could not escape the men he simply refused to move. He was dragged from the room. Athos watched him go, making eye contact as his friend disappeared from sight.

Athos could not help wondering if he would ever see his friend alive again.

MMMM

Porthos felt the hands leave his arms after they guided him to sit in a chair. He did not attempt to remove the blindfold.

They had been walked a few yards to the end of the alley before being helped onto the carriage that had been waiting. Porthos had no idea if Aramis was in the carriage with him or not. Thibault had continued to talk to him about the classes and how they should be kept in their place, Porthos had agreed but not offered anything to the argument. He did not want to say anything out of turn or contrary to the frail man's way of thinking.

The journey had taken a few minutes. Thibault had apologised for depriving him of his sight but told him that their organisation was secret and although he was sure they would be able to welcome Porthos to their group they did not want to take any chances. Porthos had agreed and spent a few minutes of the journey describing how his country was much more enlightened about the areas that Thibault wanted to change.

As the carriage came to a stop Porthos had felt hands on his arms again, helping him down from the carriage. Thibault excused himself, saying he had a matter to attend to that would take a few minutes. Porthos was guided across some well-laid stones; he was sure it was not a cobbled street. He was helped to climb a few steps before he felt a difference underfoot. They had moved from outside to in. A wooden flooring, he could tell from the sound. Their footsteps echoed around what must have been a large room. He was turned slightly before moving forwards again, eventually being guided a couple of steps to the right and then eased down into the chair he was now sat in.

He did not flinch when he felt fingers untying the blindfold. Thibault was stood in front of him as his sight was restored to him. A glance to his left found Aramis, still blindfolded, standing patiently, one man at his side a hand on his arm. Thibault looked at the man and nodded. Once Aramis' blindfold had been removed the man next to him stood back a few paces. Aramis remained where he was a look of apprehension on his face as he looked around. But Porthos knew his friend was taking in every detail of the room and had probably worked out at least three ways to incapacitate all the people in the room already. Porthos had done the same.

The room was dimly lit, curtains were closed across the windows. Porthos guessed Thibault still did not want Porthos to know where they were. A fire was lit and burning well in a large hearth, the light from the fire gave the room an ethereal glow. Porthos guessed it would look pleasant in normal light. The walls were painted a pale colour, although it was impossible to tell exactly what. Expensive looking furniture was dotted about, a large ornate rug dominated the centre of the room. Porthos' chair was at one end of the rug.

There were several men in the room beside Thibault and the two plainly dressed men. The other men watched the conversation between Thibault and Porthos. Porthos watched the men surreptitiously.

'I would like to ask you a few questions before I fully accept you,' said Thibault who Porthos realised was not using his cane.

The old man stood straight and tall, almost unrecognisable. Porthos was amazed, the old noble who was usually so frail and kindly was actually a capable older man who was running a very well organised gang of misguided murderers.

'You want money, what could you possibly have to ask me? You know I am likeminded. The people of my country would not allow the lower classes to cause such havoc-'

Thibault raised his hand to stop Porthos, 'my friend, you are correct, I do want your money, I want your help as well. Our work has seen some results but not enough to make a difference. I believe that we need a fresh...hand...to steer us back on course, to give us the push we need to finish the job. I want to be sure that you understand which of the old religions we follow.'

Porthos scoffed, he knew it was time to sell his act.

'I know that you have blood on your hands, monsieur. I know it is the blood of the people you need to put back in their place.'

Thibault smiled, he nodded, 'you are indeed exactly what my people need. You honour us, not just your money monsieur, but your very presence will help… of that I am sure. We have made a couple of acquisitions to our cause. I am having them prepared as we speak-'

One of the men who was standing further away interrupted.

'I am not so sure we should be accepting him,' he said a sneer playing over his lips.

Porthos glared at the man. He spoke before Thibault could.

'My country is more successful than France. I follow the old ways, the correct ways. You are just starting out-'

'My family has practised the old religions for centuries,' countered the man as he straightened up indignantly.

'And what good has come of it,' replied Porthos with an acerbic tone.

The man did not look happy at being called out by the newcomer. Porthos was about to speak again when Aramis muttered something, making him and the rest of the men look across. Aramis looked down as if he had been caught doing something he was not supposed to be.

'You have something to say?' asked Thibault.

Aramis shook his head, without looking up. Thibault looked at Porthos who was not sure what was expected of him.

'What did you say?' asked Thibault again.

Quietly Aramis replied, 'that this is wrong, we shouldn't be here.'

Porthos wondered for a few seconds what Aramis was doing. He was supposed to be the subservient valet, cowed by his overbearing master. Porthos paused and looked at Aramis as he realised what his friend had done. Aramis had seen that Porthos might have been losing ground to the man who was challenging him and given him the perfect reason to exert some power over a person of the lower classes. Porthos was thankful and troubled at the same time. He knew what he had to do, and hated that Aramis was going to let him do it.

He quickly rose from the chair, none of the men stopped him, the two plainly dressed men, who Porthos was sure were in the pay of Thibault, stepped back. Without hesitation Porthos backhanded Aramis who did nothing to defend himself, his friend stumbled around hitting a sideboard before crumpling to the floor. They both knew the strike would not be enough to see Aramis falling to the floor under normal circumstances. Aramis had very convincingly fallen and was lying with one arm raised above him in a display of fear. Porthos took a step forward as if to hit his valet again.

As he swung his arm towards Aramis he stopped, instead grabbing him by the arm and hauling him to his feet.

'Messieurs, I do not think you need to watch me discipline my man? If you will excuse me, I should like to deal with him in private,' Porthos turned to the man who had doubted him, 'as you can see, monsieur, I have no issue keeping my people in their place. France could learn from my country.'

Thibault took a step forward, 'of course. We can reconvene when you are ready.'

Thibault nodded to the man by the door. Porthos pulled Aramis along, out of the room following the plainly dressed man, who opened a door and let him and Aramis pass. The door was closed behind them.

MMMM

D'Artagnan had limply allowed the men to drag him out of their cellar prison and along a corridor. He noted, incongruously, that the corridor was as clean as the cellar was. Had the entire cellar been washed and scrubbed in order to keep the killer's victims, he wondered.

The two men that were forcing him along the corridor were of big build, one was his height the other a few inches shorter. They had a firm grip of his arms. A third man was walking a little ahead of them, he opened another heavy wooden door and entered the room beyond it.

D'Artagnan was dragged into the room, he glanced around. The room was bare apart from a well to one side. He had seen wells in cellars before, over time the house had probably been adapted and rebuilt leaving the original well where it was.

He was pulled to the centre of the room, his arms were forced up, the ropes binding them were forced over a hook that was then pulled upwards on a chain. D'Artagnan watched as the third man, of a smaller build and much older than the other two, turned a handle on the wall that, through a pulley system pulled the chain upwards. It was not long before the two men holding him did not need to do so. The man pulled the chain until d'Artagnan's arms were above his head and he was barely able to remain on his feet, his arms taught above him. One of the men approached him with a rag, d'Artagnan tried to resist the man but could not stop him from shoving the rag into his mouth. He glared at the man as defiantly as he could, although he did not feel particularly defiant. He was breathing hard and knew he was close to panicking.

Was he about to be killed? Was this the sacrifice? Was this the ritual?

He watched as the third man, after securing the chain walked to the well. He pulled on a heavy rope that was secured at the top of the well. The well was not very deep, it did not take the man long to pull up the bucket of water. As the man was hauling the bucket over the low wall around the well d'Artagnan was distracted by the other two men as they approached him. One had pulled a small dagger which he held up in front of d'Artagnan a cruel smile playing on his lips.

D'Artagnan tried to move away but had nowhere to go. The taller man walked behind him and held him still. The shorter man sliced the knife through d'Artagnan's underclothes pulling the garment from him, leaving him naked. The men stepped back.

The older man moved to stand in front of him, he swung his arms back, carefully holding the bucket at an angle. D'Artagnan instinctively closed his eyes and turned as much as he could, but he could not escape the freezing water. He cried out in shock as it hit his body. He could not curl up; he could not move away.

When he was able to open his eyes again, he was shocked to see the old man calmly lowering the bucket into the well a second time. D'Artagnan was shivering, the soaking leaving him struggling to think straight. He was aware of one of the other two men leaving the room for a few seconds before returning with a rough-looking blanket and some folded white fabric. The man stood waiting patiently.

D'Artagnan had no time to wonder what the man was holding as the second bucket of freezing water was thrown over him. He gasped and spluttered, dislodging the rag from his mouth as he did so. He gasped again, unable to take in a big enough breath due to the position he had been restrained.

He opened his eyes with a start and another gasped breath when he felt something being wiped and rubbed roughly across his back and sides. He realised it was the older man using the blanket to dry him. He flinched away as he was dried off but still could not escape the rough material. The tall man approached him, unfolding the white cloth he had been holding; a fresh, expensive-looking pair of braies. D'Artagnan did not fight the man as he slipped the garment onto his legs and fastened the ties.

As the chain was loosened by the older man d'Artagnan found he could not support his weight and sank to the floor. The two plainly dressed men chuckled as they grabbed him and pulled him up to his feet.

Dazed and uncoordinated d'Artagnan allowed himself to be walked from the room. He wondered if he was to be put back into the cellar with Athos. Or was he to be taken to a different room, where he would be killed.

He was walked into another room, much smaller than the one he had shared with Athos. It was equally as clean. The men forced him to the ground. D'Artagnan watched numbly as the men wrapped a rope around his ankles and knees. At the back of his mind, he knew he should fight the men, try to escape, but he was too cold from his soaking, too confused by what was happening. He wondered if this was how the killers subdued their victims.

As he watched the door swing shut, he realised he was about to be left in darkness. There were no torches in the room he had been put in. The darkness enveloped him.

D'Artagnan was scared. He was not going to deny that, even to himself. He was worried about what would happen to Athos. But he was also worried about what would happen to himself.


	10. Chapter 10

Aramis did not resist Porthos as he was pushed into the room. As the door swung shut with a click, he turned back to Porthos and indicated for his friend to say something, to continue to berate him. Porthos understood and launched into a loud diatribe of curses and demeaning words. Aramis went to the door and listened intently, he got down on his hands and knees and tried to peer under. He could just make out someone standing across the hall from them.

Porthos finished remonstrating with his valet and became silent, Aramis rose to his feet and turned to his friend who was looking at him with guilty eyes.

Despite the guilty look, Porthos whispered a thank you to him. Aramis nodded before moving passed his contrite friend to the shuttered window. He gently pushed at the well-fitted shutters. They did not budge, there was no chance of them either escaping through them or working out where they were.

He looked around the room, they were in some kind of sitting room, a chaise longue and a couple of cushioned chairs were arranged around another large hearth. The fire was not lit, leaving the room chilled. Enough torches were lit around the room to give them sufficient light.

Aramis realised Porthos had not moved from the centre of the room.

'You had to do it,' Aramis said quietly, his voice no more than a whisper.

'I know,' replied Porthos, 'if you hadn't have set that up I might have lost what little ground we've gained.'

Aramis smiled grimly, 'you know you're going to have to hit me again? And more than once. You've got to leave a mark.'

Porthos looked down, 'I hate this plan,' he said.

'So do I, but we have to think of Athos and d'Artagnan. This will give me a chance to search for them. You won't be expected to have me with you for the next meeting with Thibault.'

Porthos nodded, 'I can't believe that's the same man we see shuffling around the Palace…'

'Hidden in plain sight,' said Aramis.

He watched as Porthos took a couple of deep breaths. He knew it would be difficult for his friend to deliberately harm him, but they had to make it look convincing. If Porthos did not physically discipline him it would look odd, particularly after Porthos' display in front of the other men.

'Where do you want it?' asked Porthos.

Aramis looked at him for a few seconds before saying, 'visible,' reiterating what he had said a few seconds before.

Without warning, Porthos punched him hard across the face, the fist striking his cheek causing him to stumble back a couple of paces. Porthos followed the punch quickly with two more, both intended to leave him bruised. The third punch proved too much for Aramis, he could not help stumbling back again, knocking into a chair and crashing to the floor, the chair tipping over noisily as he came to rest on the polished parquet floor.

It took Aramis a few seconds to gather his wits, he realised Porthos was holding his shoulder, keeping him steady.

'You're bleeding,' stated Porthos.

Aramis wiped the blood from his split lip before looking up at Porthos.

'Good,' he said.

They both looked around as the door was pushed open. Aramis quickly pulled himself from Porthos' grasp, pushing himself away from his attacker affecting a shocked look as he did so. Porthos looked back at him for a second before slipping effortlessly back into character, an angry scowl clouding his formerly worried expression.

'I trust you have dealt with your issue,' asked Thibault from the doorway.

Porthos got to his feet and turned to the old man with a nod.

'I only keep him on because he knows the area and is good with languages, he is worthless at anything else,' he said derisively.

'We would like you to join us for a feast before we make our offering. I have a proposal for you. I am sure you will be agreeable, and I am sure it will help our cause.'

Aramis wondered what Thibault wanted from Porthos, he had a suspicion but did not want to entertain it. He watched as Porthos left the room, pausing at the doorway to turn back to him.

'Remain here,' he said, 'or face the consequences.'

Aramis managed a scared-looking nod, he remained where he was cowering on the floor.

MMMM

Porthos followed Thibault across the hallway, he looked around, but there was no window exposed to the outside world. He still had no idea where they were. The journey had been short, they had to still be in the centre of the city.

He had not liked leaving Aramis behind, despite knowing it was, as his friend said, the perfect opportunity to search for their missing friends. Aramis would be bruised but that would not stop him from carrying out his part of the plan. Porthos now owed it to all his friends to sell his act. He had to throw himself into it wholeheartedly. The longer he could keep Thibault and the other leaders of the group distracted the more chance Aramis would have to find Athos and d'Artagnan.

'I have a disillusioned chef,' said Thibault, 'who used to work at the Palace but has seen the light and that he could do so much better. His cooking is sublime.'

Porthos did not reply, he allowed Thibault to lead him into the impressive room where the dinner had been laid out. The large table was expensively laid, with gold and silver wares catching the light of another large fire. Again, the windows were all shuttered. Porthos wondered if the idea was not just to keep him from knowing where they were. Did Thibault and his followers want to give the impression that the house was empty to deter visitors? There were enough hired men to ensure any potential thieves would be dealt with soundly.

There were not as many men in the room as Porthos had expected. He began to understand the need for more funds. Apart from Thibault and the man that had argued with him earlier, there were only three other men. The young man that had been with Thibault when he was approached as he walked through the city and two more, both of whom had been there to witness Porthos' arrival at the house.

Thibault introduced the men.

'This is Monsieur Sartre,' said Thibault as he indicated a rotund and short man.

Porthos could tell the man liked his food as he was almost as wide as he was tall, he shook the man's podgy hand.

'I am also in trade,' said Sartre with a wink, 'although nothing as exotic as you will be able to bring to the country.'

Thibault moved onto the next man, 'Monsieur Royer, who influences the tradesmen and their guilds. A powerful man.'

Royer looked Porthos up and down, before smiling. The smile was guarded and did not reach his eyes. Porthos knew he still had his work cut out to convince the men he could help their cause and wanted to be a part of it. Royer had a firm handshake, although he looked quite frail.

'And you have already been in conversation with Monsieur Perrin...a man of inherited money although not of an inherited title.'

'My family have worked through the centuries to get us where we are,' said Perrin as he shook Porthos' hand, 'I was too quick to judge you earlier. You are correct, that we have been unlucky. But it is time for us to press forward with our plans. We are building momentum and the gods are smiling on us. It is our time.'

Porthos looked at Perrin for a few seconds, he wondered if Thibault had spoken to him warning him that they needed Porthos and his money.

The last man to be introduced was the young man, who Porthos remembered seeing around the Palace. He was careful not to react when he realised he recognised Joubert. The man showed no recognition of Porthos.

Thibault looked towards the table, 'shall we?'

The men took their seats around the table. Thibault clapped his hands a couple of times as an indication that they were ready. Porthos watched as four men dressed in plain breeches and shirts entered the room. They were not as burly as the men who were acting as guards to the leaders. The men silently went around the table serving the food. Porthos could tell the food was of high quality, although some of the choices seemed a little odd. He wondered if they had something to do with the demonic worshipping if they were part of the ritual. He waited until everyone had been served. As Thibault began to eat, Porthos copied him, eating the food in the same order, on the off chance that what they were eating was important to the old religions.

Porthos took in the other men as they ate, each man was keen to talk to Thibault, keen to keep his attention. The way the men acted towards Thibault was akin to the way the courtiers were with the King. Thibault was the man in charge. The others wanted to be at the centre of the groups work but they were not in charge.

'The offering we have is not perfect, but better than a lot we have had recently. The men did well when taking him. There is another as well, although not as suitable. We have kept that offering back. All the offerings make a difference, we will not waste him.'

Porthos had to concentrate on not reacting to the way Thibault was talking about his friends. He wondered which of them was the more suitable offering to the deranged men's demonic ritual.

He realised the room had become quiet; all the men were looking at Thibault. Porthos quietly placed his cutlery down. Thibault turned his attention towards him.

'I believe you are the right man for this offering. If Monsieur Perrin were to still have any doubts about your intentions to assist us this will prove him wrong.'

Thibault twisted in his chair slightly and with great reverence lifted a small box from the sideboard behind him, laying it on the table between him and Porthos. He opened the ornate box to reveal a black-handled dagger, carvings trailing down its handle and mirrored on its sharp-looking blade.

Porthos looked at the blade for a few seconds before looking up at Thibault.

'I would be honoured,' he said. 'But I must confess to not being honoured in such a way before. I am not at the top of the leaders of my country…'

He paused, hoping he was not putting his position in jeopardy.

Thibault chuckled, 'I did not think you were, my brother. We are a small group compared to a country. But I still believe you are to be the turning point. The injection of not only much-needed funds but of...shall we call it luck.'

Thibault smiled, Porthos glanced at the other men, who were all nodding. Some more enthusiastically than others. Joubert and Royer still seemed to be on their guard.

Porthos nodded to the men before turning back to Thibault, 'then I am truly honoured. I have been present for many rituals of offering,' he said, relying on the fact that the men thought he was a foreigner speaking a language that was not his own for potentially using the wrong terminology. 'But have never been directly involved. I would appreciate your guidance. We must perform the offering correctly…'

Thibault regarded him for a few seconds, Porthos wondered if he had ruined his facade. Did Thibault expect him to know what happened during one of their rituals?

'I think that is wise. A fresh hand must be guided.'

Porthos almost sighed. As Thibault began to talk him through the horrors of the sacrificial ceremony, Porthos hoped Aramis was making the most of the time he had bought him to search for and rescue their friends.

MMMM

Athos opened his eyes again. He knew he was in danger of falling asleep, he was tired, he did not know how long he had been awake for. He was worried about d'Artagnan, but the fatigue was starting to win out over the worry. Even the brightness of the room was failing to keep him alert. He knew that if something happened, he would be able to drag himself to full alertness, but nothing was happening. They had dragged his friend away, his unashamedly scared-looking friend and left him alone with nothing but the flickering torches for company and the manacles that had restrained d'Artagnan lying haphazardly on the floor a few yards in front of him.

Their situation was bleak. They had no idea where they were, they had no weapons, they were outnumbered and now they had been split up with d'Artagnan's life very much in danger.

Athos was not one to pray, but he sent up a few silent prayers as he sat on the cool stone floor of the clean cellar.

A quiet scratching sound by the door made him look across. He did not believe there would be rats or other vermin in the scrubbed cellar. The noise happened again. Athos looked at the door, trying to work out what was causing the noise on the other side.

The lock was being picked. Even as he worked out what was happening, he heard the bolts being drawn back and watched, wide-eyed, as the door was pushed open, swinging silently on its well-oiled hinges.

Athos was a little surprised to see Aramis on the other side of the door. His friend had clearly been in a one-sided fight, he had a split lip and several growing bruises on his face. Aramis managed a smile before putting his finger to his lips. Athos nodded, he remained silent as Aramis looked up and down the corridor outside the room for a few seconds before stepping into the room and allowing the big door to swing almost shut behind him.

Aramis was dressed in plain clothes; his hair had been pulled back neatly, although looked a little untidy, probably due to the beating he appeared to have taken. If it were not for the bruises his friend would pass as a private secretary to a wealthy man or noble. Athos realised their plan to infiltrate the group had been enacted.

'Where is Porthos?'

'Where's d'Artagnan?'

Both men whispered their obvious questions at the same time as Aramis looked around the room, his eyes settling on the manacles that had been used to restrain d'Artagnan.

'They took him. I do not know how long ago,' said Athos, 'I have no idea how long we have been here.'

Aramis nodded, he crouched in front of him and started to look him over, searching for injuries.

'They may have already killed him,' said Athos, realising he had not wanted to make the statement out loud, did not want to think about it as a possibility.

Aramis shook his head, 'I don't think so,' he said, 'I think they want Porthos to kill him.'

The simple statement shocked Athos. He stared at Aramis who had reached for his right wrist and was starting to work on picking the lock of the manacle.

Aramis looked up, obviously realising Athos did not know what was happening outside of the room.

'I think they've accepted him as a follower of their sick religion. He is their good luck omen.'

Athos shook his head as he watched the manacle fall away.

'What happened to you?' he asked looking at the marks on Aramis' face.

'Porthos had a slight issue at one point. I helped him out by acting insubordinate...he did not like having to do this.'

'A necessary evil to fight an unnecessary one,' said Athos.

As Aramis began to work on the second manacle, they heard footsteps in the corridor outside. The steps sped up, whoever was outside had spotted the open door. They looked at each other. There was nowhere for Aramis to hide.

'You don't know me,' said Aramis quietly as the door was pushed open behind him.

Athos could only watch as two of the burly men rushed into the room. They grabbed Aramis who did not put much effort into fighting back. He resisted but nothing else. Athos, who was still chained to the wall by the left manacle could do nothing to help his friend.

The men pulled him a few yards away before throwing him to the floor. Aramis managed to twist over and hold his hands out submissively. It made no difference to the two men. One stepped in and kicked him hard, knocking the air from him. More kicks followed.

Athos wanted to shout at the men to stop but could not give away that he knew Aramis. If they worked out that the captive and the valet knew each other they would not be far away from working out that they had been infiltrated.

Athos could do nothing but watch as his friend was beaten and kicked by the two men.

MMMM


	11. Chapter 11

The darkness was pressing in around him, d'Artagnan was sure, even though he could not see anything, that the walls of the small room were getting closer. He wondered if he would run out of air, he hated how pathetic he felt, how helpless. How useless.

The men had been too strong and had expertly kept him restrained constantly when he had been drenched in the freezing water. The humiliation of being stripped naked in front of strangers had paled into insignificance when the water had been thrown over him. He guessed it was some sort of symbolic cleansing before they killed him. The men were all deranged, they must have been made promises of wealth and power by the leaders of the group.

He wondered what would happen to Athos. Would he follow, meeting the same fate?

Thoughts whirled around in d'Artagnan's head as he tried to decide if he preferred to keep his eyes shut and try to forget the blackness or keep them open in the hope of seeing some chink of light, any glimmer of hope.

As the door was pulled open, he instinctively pulled away, screwing his eyes shut at the onslaught of light he had, until that moment, so desperately craved. Hands were on him pulling him up before he could gather his wits. He was forced to walk forward as he managed to open his eyes a little, squinting at the floor.

They paused at a closed door. The door, unlike the other big solid doors, was intricately carved with swirling patterns. As his eyes became used to the light again d'Artagnan could make out strange-looking creatures carved into the wood. The more he looked the more disturbing the carvings were. Evil looking beings, half man half creature. Beasts with horns and tails, standing on two feet. Also, normal-looking people being killed in horrible ways.

The door swung open, d'Artagnan took in the room beyond it. He found himself trying to stop the men from forcing him forward.

At the centre of the room was a stone altar. Leather straps were attached, to short chains that were in turn attached to the stone under the large slab of stone that formed the top of the altar. Around its base were more carvings, as intricate as those on the door depicting what looked like biblical scenes, but with changes that made them look horrific.

Around the altar that he was being pushed towards were pillars with flaming torches attached to metal holders. Candles were placed at frequent intervals around the edge of the room on a small rim built into the stone wall. Looking up d'Artagnan could see several grated openings in the stonework, a slight wavering of the candles below the openings indicated a breeze coming into the room.

The men had forced him to the edge of the altar. D'Artagnan finally found the ability to fight back. He squirmed around and tried to twist out of the men's grasp, but they had him firmly held. More men appeared, had they been in the room, standing in the shadows? There were dark areas of the room, the candles and torches casting deep shadows in all directions, the pillars helping to hide areas of the room from his sight.

D'Artagnan tried to kick out at the men but could not make contact, his legs were grabbed, and he was forced onto the altar, stretched out, his wrists and ankles pulled to each corner.

Without really registering what he was saying he shouted out, he called for help, perhaps someone would hear outside on the street. If they were close enough to a street to be heard. He shouted at the men who were strapping him down, he swore at the men. He begged the men to release him. One of the men seemed to grow tired of his cries, a gag was employed. He continued to shout for a few seconds through the gag, he continued to struggle until the last strap was tightened around his ankle but realised it was hopeless.

D'Artagnan was scared.

D'Artagnan was convinced he was going to die.

No.

D'Artagnan had to retain some hope. Had to hope that he would be saved. He would happily take the teasing he might get for panicking if it meant he was alive and free of the hell he had found himself. D'Artagnan had to think that he would be saved. He would go mad if he just accepted his fate. He had to remain alert, if...no...when he was rescued, he had to be ready to move. To fight back.

The men who had restrained him stepped back, forming a rough semicircle to one side of the altar. D'Artagnan looked at them for a few seconds before turning his head to the other side, towards the door. It was being pushed open.

The grey-haired man that had looked at both himself and Athos in their cellar room earlier entered. He led a group of other men. D'Artagnan had to make a concerted effort not to react when he saw Porthos amongst the group of men. Porthos glanced at him but did not react in the slightest. Porthos must have been expecting to see him, or Athos, tied to the altar.

Could d'Artagnan allow hope to enter his mind properly?

The grey-haired old man walked up to the altar, he glanced at the straps for a few seconds before turning back to the room. He started to talk in a language d'Artagnan did not understand. The other men, except Porthos, all responded at certain moments. D'Artagnan noticed Porthos copying the men.

'Now, monsieur, if you are still willing to take the honour of making the offering?'

Porthos stepped forward with a smile.

One of the men that had entered the room with the grey-haired man and Porthos stepped forward. He was holding a small wooden box which he reverently opened. D'Artagnan caught the glimpse of metal, reflecting the flames around the room. Porthos reached into the box and pulled out a small sharp dagger. He held it, weighing it up in his hand appreciatively.

'It is a thing of beauty,' he said with a glance at the grey-haired man.

The man smiled and nodded before turning back to d'Artagnan and ushering Porthos to walk around the altar to stand on the other side. D'Artagnan looked up at him, Porthos did not make eye contact.

'Make your strike here,' said the old man, pointing at d'Artagnan's chest. 'You must be accurate and firm. He must still be alive as we take his heart, if it still beats as it is removed it is a very good sign indeed.'

Porthos lowered the dagger, the tip of the blade resting on d'Artagnan skin, he could feel it being pressed into him a little. He could not help breathing quicker, he stared at Porthos, unable to hide the fear.

What was the plan? What was Porthos going to do? Alone against a room full of men, d'Artagnan had no idea how many men there were in the room, lurking in the shadows.

'Are you prepared?' asked the old man.

Porthos looked at the man and smiled, 'we will achieve so much today,' he said as he raised the dagger.

D'Artagnan watched as the old man took a step back and Porthos finally looked him in the eyes. But any communication Porthos was going to make was interrupted by the door being pushed open again.

The younger man, that had spoken to the leader when he and Athos had been looked over in their cell entered. He walked ahead of two of the guards who were marching Athos into the room. Athos made eye contact with both him and Porthos before he was pushed to the side, half-hidden behind one of the columns.

After Athos, another two guards entered, they were dragging a stumbling Aramis who was covered in bruises, his shirt ripped, and bloodstained. They pushed Aramis a few paces forward, the Musketeer crashed to his knees before leaning forward and supporting himself on his hands, breathing hard.

The grey-haired man looked outraged.

'What is the meaning of this?' he demanded.

'That,' said the young man pointing at Aramis, 'was trying to release that one.'

The young man pointed at Athos who was being chained to the wall by the door. The man with the key stepping to the side.

'I told you we could not trust him,' said one of the other men who appeared to be in league with the grey-haired man. 'They are in collusion to release our offerings.'

There was a silence that lasted for mere seconds but felt like hours. The only sounds that d'Artagnan could hear were his own fast breathing, Aramis' laboured breathing and the odd snap of the fire in the torches.

It was Porthos who broke the silence. He gently placed the dagger he was still holding onto the altar beside d'Artagnan. He walked around the altar until he was stood in front of Aramis who managed to kneel back and look up at him.

'Was this your plan?' he seethed, anger and shock in every word. 'Did you take me for a fool? You so nearly got away with it…'

Porthos stepped back he glanced around before stepping up to one of the other men, a fat squat middle-aged man who was holding a strong looking cane. Porthos took the cane and stepped up to Aramis who was watching him.

'You were always a pacifist, I was blinded, I thought you were just subservient, willing to do as you were told. As all the lower classes should.'

Porthos leaned forward and pushed Aramis over. Weakened by the beating he must have taken, Aramis fell onto his side. Porthos raised the cane and brought it down on Aramis, hard. D'Artagnan had managed to push himself up slightly, he watched with shock as the cane connected with Aramis' forearm. The unfortunate Musketeer had raised his right arm in a defensive move, taking the full force of the strike. Aramis cried out in pain, before collapsing back onto the smooth flagstone floor, unconscious.

Another silence fell on the room. The silence was again broken by Porthos.

'Monsieur Thibault,' he said, addressing the grey-haired man, 'I will deal with my former valet later. I do not want this to affect proceedings...I do hope you do not think less of me now. I feel a fool for allowing him to work for me.'

Porthos turned to the man who had accused him of being in league with Aramis.

'I can assure you, Monsieur Perrin, I want what is best for this country. It is in my interest to ensure this ceremony goes well. When your country is cured of its attempts at equality for all, my country will gladly work with you. We shall be two great nations.'

Perrin looked at Porthos for a few seconds before nodding.

`Monsieur,' Porthos turned back to Thibault, 'please have this man taken out of my sight, I will finish him later, at my leisure.'

Thibault appeared to approve of the plan and nodded with a sneering smile on his lips. He looked at the men that had brought Aramis into the room. They stepped forward, and without a care for his injuries dragged the unconscious man from the room. The door closed behind them.

D'Artagnan watched as Porthos took a deep breath, his eyes on the closed door for a few seconds before he shifted slightly to look at Athos. D'Artagnan could tell something passed between them, some look, some silent message. He did not know what.

MMMM

Athos watched Porthos take a breath, he had known the man long enough to know that he was very close to breaking character. What he had just had to do would have been very difficult, despite them all knowing he had probably saved Aramis' life in the process.

Porthos looked at him, the nods they exchanged so subtle no one else in the room would have noticed. Porthos had asked for the beaten, injured man to be removed from the room for a reason. Porthos was going to have to make a move if he was going to start the ball rolling to get them all out of the mess they were in. When Porthos made that move, the suspicion that the man Porthos had called Perrin had would be founded. Not only had the valet been working to free the captive but the tradesman was nothing of the sort. Their charade would be over the moment Porthos made his move. If Aramis was still in the room, he would be a perfect target to use as a bargaining tool and Porthos did not want to worry about Aramis when he had to deal with a room of men who would all be intent on killing him. Porthos needed to get d'Artagnan and Athos free quickly or they would not stand a chance.

Thibault, who Athos could not believe he had not recognised before, looked at Porthos as he turned around to face the altar again. The leader watched Porthos as he slowly returned to the other side and picked up the dagger again.

Thibault turned to the rest of the leading men in the room.

'I think, monsieur, that you have proved Perrin and Joubert wrong. They both doubted you, but you dealt with that swiftly and correctly. Only the offering can die in this room. Perhaps you will allow us to observe you as you deal with your wayward valet a little later. Some entertainment will be welcome.'

Athos felt disgusted by the words. Thibault was callously talking about the lives of two of his friends. The man had no respect for the lives of anyone he considered beneath him.

Thibault turned back to Porthos.

'I think we have lost enough time. Proceed.'

Porthos nodded. Athos watched him take another deep breath. He looked at the dagger in his hand for a few seconds before looking at d'Artagnan, who despite being largely ignored for the last few minutes, was breathing fast. The young man had been firmly secured to the altar, the straps at his wrists looked tight. His eyes were wide as he looked up at Porthos.

D'Artagnan did not look as though he had been harmed since he had been dragged from their shared cell. Athos wondered if the obvious, and understandable, fear he could see in the younger man's eyes would help or hinder him when Porthos made his move. D'Artagnan had to join the fight for their survival when Porthos acted. If d'Artagnan froze all would be lost. Athos had faith in his friend. Athos knew d'Artagnan would use the fear, he would turn it to his advantage.

Porthos maintained eye contact with d'Artagnan for a few seconds, Athos could not work out what was being communicated, but he knew it was crucial that d'Artagnan understood it.

Athos glanced around the room, the leaders were spread out, watching intently. The short, fat man was positively salivating as he looked on. Some of the others were muttering under their breath, Athos could not make out what they were saying, it was repetitive whatever it was.

He looked back at Porthos who had straightened up, he faced the altar. He raised the dagger high above d'Artagnan. Porthos paused, he looked around the room, before looking back down at d'Artagnan.

Porthos swiftly brought the dagger down.

MMMM


	12. Chapter 12

The pain in his arm was all-consuming for several minutes. Aramis opened his eyes slowly to find himself lying on a stone floor. The room he was in was lit by candles, their flickering light casting dancing shadows across the walls. He looked at the light for a while as he tried to get his scattered memories to line up in his mind.

He knew he had a broken arm. And Aramis knew that lying on his side with his arms tied behind him was probably not the best position to be in with a broken arm.

Porthos had broken his arm. Aramis wondered if that had been his friend's intention when he had struck him. The painful memories came back to him.

He remembered being beaten to the ground by the guards that had discovered him trying to release Athos. They had kicked him several times leaving him bruised, he did not think they had damaged any of his ribs, but the bruising alone would slow him down. The men had hauled him up and dragged him out of the room and along the corridor a few yards. He remembered being thrown to the ground and struggling not to react to his treatment in such a way that would cause their charade to be found out.

The moment when he had been on the floor looking up at Porthos and seeing the utter regret in his eyes was the closest he came to breaking character. His friend had, once again, been forced to hurt him. Although the first time Aramis had positively encouraged the injuries, he had not wanted to receive a broken arm the second time.

Raising his arm above him as Porthos had brought the stick down had been a natural reaction. He had not even thought about what he was doing. Aramis wondered if it would have been better to let Porthos strike him across the back or side. He probably would have had broken ribs then.

As he lay on the floor, the pain coursing through him in waves he wondered which would be preferable. The broken arm he had or broken ribs.

The distraction of his musings helped to keep his mind off the pain as he forced his fingers to work at the knot that was keeping him prisoner. He knew it would be a slow process, but he had to undo the knot. He did not know what was going on elsewhere.

Aramis wanted to get himself free and go back to help his friends. He doubted he would forget the look of horror and fear in d'Artagnan's eyes for a long time. The helpless man had been tied to the altar with no chance of escape, at least not without help.

Aramis was injured and would not be much use to his friends, but he was determined, despite the pain he was in, that he was going to help in some way.

MMMM

D'Artagnan looked at Porthos. Porthos looked down at d'Artagnan. D'Artagnan could not stop his eyes from flicking to the dagger held aloft in Porthos hand. He looked back at Porthos who stared at him, his eyes piercing in the torchlight. Porthos moved his eyes to a point slightly to the right of d'Artagnan. Porthos looked back at him before repeating the move and then looking at the dagger.

It took him a few seconds, the fear clouding his judgement again, but when he understood he almost smiled. He pulled his thoughts into order. He carefully calmed his breathing. D'Artagnan knew he had mere seconds to be ready. He looked back at Porthos and blinked a couple of times, hoping his friend understood that he had understood the intention.

Porthos looked away from him, toward Thibault who was standing on the other side of the altar muttering words under his breath, another repeated phrase.

D'Artagnan tried to remember how many men were in the room. Thibault and the men he had come in with, d'Artagnan thought there were five of them, and a few of the plainly dressed guards and servants. D'Artagnan had to be prepared to take on a lot of men, but they would be taken by surprise and he doubted that all of them were fighters.

The next few minutes were going to be hard work and if Porthos did not get the first move right they would probably not make it through them alive.

Thibault finished his muttered words and made a gesture for Porthos to proceed. Porthos looked down at him again, locking eyes for a second, before Porthos looked at his target. He brought the dagger down, quickly changing his trajectory as he did so. The move was quick but d'Artagnan was ready. The blade sliced through the leather strap holding his right wrist. D'Artagnan could feel the blade cut into his skin a little but did not have time to think about it.

Porthos had already whirled around and plunged the dagger into the neck of the closest guard.

D'Artagnan twisted around, he grabbed the first man to approach him, one of the taller, guards. He hooked his hand around the man's neck and pulled him forward slamming his head into the stone of the altar next to him. The resulting injury was messy but effective, the man crumpled to the floor.

D'Artagnan could hear Porthos taking out another of the guards and possibly one of the men with Thibault. As Porthos fought, d'Artagnan tugged at the strap around his left wrist but was only given a few seconds to try to free himself before Thibault had grabbed him.

Thibault pushed him back down with one hand around his throat, d'Artagnan managed to push the old man off him but only for a few seconds. Thibault was joined by the man that had thrown the icy water over him, they worked together to try to force d'Artagnan back down onto the stone altar.

Porthos appeared behind Thibault and with little ceremony stabbed him in the heart, yanking the dagger from the old man's chest quickly and rounding on the other man that had pushed d'Artagnan down. The man was leaning over d'Artagnan trying to grab at Porthos who simple stabbed him in the back. The man collapsed over d'Artagnan who could only watch as Porthos was grabbed from behind and pulled away from him.

He looked back at the body lying over him and realised Porthos had helpfully left him a weapon when he was pulled away. D'Artagnan knew that Porthos was more than capable of taking out a few of the men, none of whom seemed to be armed, with his fists.

As he was being ignored at that moment, d'Artagnan grabbed the handle of the dagger and pulled it out of the back of the dead man, it took much more effort than he had expected. He was lying underneath the man and still only had the use of his right hand. The blade eventually slipped free of its victim. D'Artagnan managed to slice through the strap on his left wrist before pushing the body off him.

A fat man appeared beside him, doing much the same as Thibault had tried, but the man was too weak, despite his size. D'Artagnan managed to push the man back hard enough for him to stumble back and fall to the floor, the man did not move, d'Artagnan guessed he had hit his head on the way down.

After making quick work of slicing through the leather straps at his ankles he swung his legs off the altar and hopped to the floor. Quickly taking in the chaotic room as he did so.

Porthos was embroiled in a vicious fight with three men, they had managed to back him into a corner. Porthos was using the confined space to his advantage, the three men could not attack him simultaneously, he was able to keep one at bay whilst he pummelled the other two.

Athos had disappeared. D'Artagnan saw a guard lying on the ground in front of the space his friend had occupied before the fight had started. D'Artagnan did not have time to wonder where Athos had gone to.

Two of the men who had been with Thibault were moving towards him. One of them had picked up the cane that had been used by Porthos to hit Aramis. The man wielded the improvised weapon as the two men moved forward. D'Artagnan guessed they might have some training with a sword, but he doubted they would have been taught how to fight in a way that did not follow any rules. D'Artagnan had the benefit of extra training in the art of fighting dirty. Porthos was always happy to show him different underhand methods to win a fight.

The men, who were clearly of a class that was not used to being in a real fight made each move obvious to d'Artagnan before they made it. It was not long before he had managed to slice the dagger across the chest of one of the men, cutting through his fine doublet and leaving a gaping wound that made the man stagger back looking down at his chest. The other man tried to bring the cane down on d'Artagnan but the Musketeer was quicker, plunging the dagger into his stomach. The cane dropped from the man's hand, clattering on the stone floor as the man sank to his knees. He grasped at the wound for a few seconds before looking at his blood-covered hands then looking at d'Artagnan for a few seconds. As the man slumped to the side his friend made one last attempt to attack him, d'Artagnan thought nothing of kicking out with his bare foot and sending the man to the floor.

MMMM

Athos watched, mesmerised, as Porthos brought the blade down on their friend. His swift change of direction mid-swing was perfect. The chaos that followed was what they needed. There were too many men for them to fight if they were organised. But the men were directionless. Thibault's leadership had not stretched to dealing with 'offerings' that fought back.

The man that had the keys to the manacles was still standing next to Athos. He knew he had to act fast or his opportunity to help would be lost. As the man went to walk forward Athos tripped him to the ground before driving the heel of his foot into the man's back as he tried to get up. Athos had enough chain on his manacles to kneel, he grabbed the man and slammed him down onto the stone floor three times. When the man did not try to rise again Athos started to fumble through his pockets until he found the key.

He glanced up, surprised to see that Porthos and d'Artagnan seemed to have the fight under control. It helped that the men with Thibault, who was already dead, appeared reluctant to join in the fight. But Athos knew that would change.

He managed to slip the key into the lock and release himself. He got to his feet and looked across to Porthos who was in the process of pushing two men off him.

Porthos noticed him and nodded towards the door.

'Find Aramis, a couple of them are still out there.'

Athos was a little torn, he did not like the idea of leaving his friends to fight but the odds were swinging in their favour. Aramis was likely to be completely vulnerable if he was still unconscious, the men that had taken him from the room had not returned. With a nod towards Porthos who may or may not have noticed Athos moved to the door. He pulled it open and stepped out into the corridor.

The plain corridor was also clean, cleared of any of the detritus that usually accumulated in cellars. Athos looked up and down but found no guard. He guessed anyone in the corridor would have been drawn to the yells and sounds of the fight currently concluding in the room behind him. Deciding it made no difference which way he searched first Athos turned to his left and began to make his way along the corridor of doors. He tried the handle of the first door, pushing it open he found a small empty room, there was not even anywhere to hang a torch or place a candle. He moved on. He pushed open the heavy door that he and d'Artagnan had been kept in. There was no sign of anyone having been in the room since he had been forced out of it.

The next room made his stomach churn. Athos liked to think he was not easily shocked but the sight of the chopping board and sharp knives along with the items that had been set aside for preparation nearly saw him throw up. A bag of apples and a barrel of wine by one wall of the small room was innocent enough. But the buckets of organs were something else entirely. Knowing what happened to the victims meant Athos had a fair idea what was in the buckets and where it had come from. The realisation that the food that had been brought to them had been prepared in the small room he was looking at was horrific. Athos decided he would never speak of what he had seen. D'Artagnan did not need to know what they had eaten.

As he was about to step back into the corridor, he saw a shadow, further along, he slipped out of sight and waited. Footsteps echoed in the corridor. Athos decided to take his chance. He rounded the door quickly, punching out at the man that had approached. Taken by surprise the man stumbled to the side and hit the wall. Athos was on him in a second, punching him again. The man slumped down unconscious.

After a quick look up and down the corridor, Athos grabbed the man by the feet and dragged him into the room behind him.

MMMM

With clenched teeth, Aramis finally managed to pull the loop of rope loose enough to slip his hand out. He had to force himself to breathe steadily as he eased his broken arm to the front before pushing himself up to sit. He blinked a few times before shutting his eyes as he worked through the pain the movements had caused him.

He looked around the room, there was nothing he could use. The candles were in various states, some were only minutes away from sputtering out.

With his left hand, he undid a couple of the buttons on his doublet, with a small whimper of pain he eased his broken arm into his jacket. If he had been in his uniform, he would have used his sash to make a sling. If he had been in uniform, he would also have been well-armed. He leaned forward and felt around inside his right boot, a smile crossed his lips when his fingers closed around the slim dagger.

The dagger was not much use for anything except sneak attacks where he could get very close to the enemy before he deployed it. But at that moment he had nothing else and he did not like being both injured and unarmed.

Getting to his feet seemed an insurmountable task. He shuffled to the edge of the room and steadied himself against the wall as he twisted onto his knees. Slowly he pushed himself up to stand. The room, or more likely he, swayed for a few seconds. He closed his eyes as the dizzy feeling passed. His next issue would be the door. Using the wall as support he worked his way around the small room, being careful to avoid the flames of the candles as he went.

Aramis reached out to the handle of the door, expecting it to be locked. He was surprised to find the door click open, the men that had left him obviously thought he was not going anywhere and had not bothered to lock him in. He eased the door open.

He could not help the slight gasp when he found himself staring at one of the guards, standing on the other side of the door.

Aramis knew he would be no match for the burly man in a fight at that particular moment.

MMMM


	13. Chapter 13

D'Artagnan looked at the bodies on the ground in front of him for a few seconds. The blood from the men's wounds was soaking through their expensive clothes.

A warning from Porthos made him look up. Two of the men that had been fighting Porthos had turned to him. They were stalking towards him. D'Artagnan recognised them as the other two men that had been involved in his ritual washing with the freezing water a few hours before.

The men split up and tried to circle d'Artagnan. But d'Artagnan had training, even with just a ceremonial dagger as a weapon he knew he could get the better of the men. He just had to get his timing right. The taller man rushed towards him, d'Artagnan quickly stepped aside allowing the man to plough into the altar table. Not wishing to risk the dagger getting stuck in the man by stabbing him, d'Artagnan opted to punch him hard in the lower back before pushing him firmly to the floor. He knew the man was likely to get up again, but it would take him a few seconds. Seconds he could use to deal with the older man, the one that had thrown the water at him.

As the man approached, with much more caution, d'Artagnan surprised him by jumping to the side and swiping the dagger upwards as he did so. The blade sliced across the man's face, cutting deeply. The man howled and stumbled backwards, tripping over one of the bodies before crashing to the floor, moaning in pain.

D'Artagnan returned his attention to the other man who was trying to pull himself up, using the altar as support. D'Artagnan grabbed the cane that had been used on Aramis and hit the man on the back of the head. When the man went down for the second time, he stayed down.

The older man was still clutching at his face with one hand but had managed to get back to his feet. He was groping around with his free hand, trying to find the door. D'Artagnan calmly walked up behind him and hit him across the back of the head in a similar fashion to the other man. The man slumped down by the doorway.

At the same time, Porthos managed to push his assailant into the stone wall with enough force to leave him either unconscious or dead by the time he had hit the floor. Porthos stared at the man for a few seconds, his breathing hard.

When he looked up, he looked at d'Artagnan. They stared at each other for a few seconds before Porthos took a couple of steps forward and grabbed him in a firm embrace. D'Artagnan did not mind the shameless show of affection from his friend.

'I really thought we'd lost you both,' said Porthos when he pushed d'Artagnan away.

D'Artagnan looked down for a few seconds, 'I really thought we were lost. Until you came into the room with those men...I thought that was it, I was going to die.'

Porthos looked him up and down, searching for any injuries. D'Artagnan held out his wrist.

'Other than a few bruises I think my worst injury is the one you inflicted,' he said as he showed Porthos the slight scratch the dagger had caused to the side of his wrist when he sliced through the leather strap.

Porthos nodded with a sigh. He looked around the room at the bodies.

'Where did Athos go?' asked d'Artagnan.

'He's gone to find Aramis. I didn't like the idea of him being injured and this lot running around.'

D'Artagnan nodded his understanding.

'Let's tie up any that aren't dead first and then find them,' said Porthos with a sweeping gesture to the dead and injured men around them.

As Porthos went about restraining the two men that had survived the fight, d'Artagnan managed to ease the boots breeches and doublet from one of the guards who was about the same height and build as he was. As he pulled on the doublet, he noticed Porthos watching him with a grin.

'Don't feel so vulnerable now?'

D'Artagnan nodded.

Porthos went back to looking at the bodies, his brow furrowed as he carefully looked at each one.

'What's the matter?' asked d'Artagnan.

'One of the men that was with Thibault, the young one...Joubert...he ain't here.'

D'Artagnan did his own check of the bodies before nodding.

'He was here when the fight started. Do you think he followed Athos?'

Porthos did not bother to hide the concern on his face, 'let's get after them.'

They turned towards the door, only to find it being pushed open from the other side.

MMMM

Athos crept along the corridor as he pulled the stolen breeches up slightly. He had been a little disappointed after stripping the unconscious guard to find the man's clothes were too big for him. The shirt billowed until he had tucked it firmly into the breeches that he was still having to intermittently pull up. But the boots had been the right size, Athos was grateful for that small mercy. The most useful thing to come from his unwelcome meeting with the guard was that Athos was now armed with a gun and a limited amount of ammunition. The weapon was not of the best quality, but it would do.

He paused frequently and listened as he reached a bend in the corridor. He could hear someone muttering to themselves. He peered around the corner.

One of the guards appeared to be on watch. He was slouched against the wall opposite a door not paying proper attention, he was more interested in his fingernails. Athos noticed a bottle of wine held loosely in the man's hand. The bottle was almost empty. Clearly keeping watch was not the man's favourite activity.

The man looked up from his fingernails as the door opposite him was pulled open. Stepping forward he stared at the man who had opened the door.

Aramis stared back at him. Athos took in the surprised expression on Aramis' face. His injured friend had obviously not expected anyone to be there, he was probably surprised to find the door had not been locked.

The man raised the hand holding the bottle and went to push Aramis back. Aramis managed to swipe at the man's arm, halting the half-hearted effort to get Aramis back into the room. But Athos knew Aramis did not stand a chance against the man, even though he was probably quite drunk. The man was of a bigger build and not suffering from a broken arm and the effects of being beaten not long before. The man's second shove at Aramis had the Musketeer stumble backwards.

Athos knew it was time to make his move.

He surged forward, knocking the man to the ground. The unstable guard was not difficult to get on the floor. But he did manage to fight back, for a few seconds before a well-aimed punch to the head saw him slump back against the stone floor, his nearly empty bottle of wine rolled out of his hand and spun a few inches, the last drops of wine spilling out staining the scrubbed stone red.

'Thank you,' said Aramis as he held out his left hand to help Athos up. 'I was foolish to just open the door-'

Athos smiled at his friend, 'I think you can be forgiven. You do realise you have a broken arm and you were beaten up earlier?'

'I'd not forgotten,' remarked Aramis with a nod. 'The others?'

'I left them fighting. But they had it under control. Porthos managed to get d'Artagnan free. I think Porthos was distracted, worrying about you, which is why I was despatched to find you.'

'And with perfect timing,' said Aramis as he crouched down next to the unconscious guard and wrangled his gun and a dagger from his belt.

Aramis handed the slim blade to Athos who slipped it into his boot. He watched as Aramis, who was as good a shot with his left hand as he was with his right, cast a critical eye over the weapon before looking up at him.

'I wonder if you might prime it for me?'

Athos chuckled, 'I would rather have you armed with one gun than nothing,' he said as he took the weapon and did as he was asked.

'I'm coming with you,' said Aramis.

Athos had suspected he would have a hard time keeping his friend away from the fight that might have still been going on between their friends and the devil worshippers.

'Why was I put in there?' Aramis asked after a few seconds, looking back at the room he had been in.

'Porthos needed to get you out of the way. Do you remember what happened before?'

Aramis nodded, his eyes a little unfocused due to the pain he was trying to hide, 'I remember Porthos hitting me. Nothing after that. I was a liability I suppose,' Aramis mused.

Athos nodded before handing the primed gun back to Aramis who took it with his left and after looking it over briefly then pushed it into his belt.

After unceremoniously dumping the unconscious guard in the room Aramis had been in and locking the door, they cautiously made their way back to the room with the altar.

MMMM

Three men rushed into the room, three more guards. Unlike the guards that had been present for the sacrifice the ones that had appeared were armed. Porthos was not quick enough to push d'Artagnan out of the way of the gunshot the first man-made. D'Artagnan yelped in pain, the shot had hit him, but Porthos had no time to help his friend as two of the men charged towards him.

The first man, a young lad of probably not even twenty was wielding a sword but had little training. Porthos managed to step to the side and grab the young man's wrist firmly. The man dropped the sword into Porthos waiting hand. Porthos pushed the man aside, although he was a little perturbed to see the man change his target and move to attack d'Artagnan with one of the other men.

The second man that attacked him, was also armed with a blade. Porthos was quick to fend off a few swipes of the man's sword.

D'Artagnan was clutching at his side where he had been hit, blood seeping around his fingers, he was leaning over the altar for support as he fended off the two men who were attacking him one-handed.

Porthos forced the man he was fighting back several steps until he bumped into the young man that Porthos had disarmed. The distraction gave d'Artagnan a chance to push the other man away. But Porthos knew it was hopeless, d'Artagnan was already fatigued from his ordeal with the devil worshippers and he was injured. It was only a matter of time before the man fighting him got the better of him. Porthos had to neutralise the two men who were attacking him so that he could help his injured friend.

The young man was trying to step away from Porthos and go back to attacking d'Artagnan, but Porthos could not allow that. He managed to slice the man across the arm causing him to stagger back a few paces, a very shocked expression on his face. But the man was not ready to give up, he reached up to one of the torches and pulled it free, before turning back to d'Artagnan who was busy trying to stop the man who had focused on him from pushing a knife into his chest.

Porthos was trying to work out how to get to d'Artagnan when two shots rang out. The noise deafening in the confines of the cellar room.

MMMM

D'Artagnan blinked a few times as the man that had been trying to stab him collapsed to the side, the dagger in his hand scraping uselessly on the stone altar before clattering to the floor. He was aware of two more bodies hitting the floor across the room.

It took him another few seconds to realise there was a hand on his shoulder steadying him. He opened his eyes to find Aramis looking at him, worry very evident on his face.

'You've got a broken arm,' said d'Artagnan, unable to hide his confusion as he tried to work out what had just happened.

'And you've just been shot,' replied Aramis calmly.

Aramis gently pushed him down to sit on the floor, leaning back on the altar. He looked around the room. Porthos was pulling the sword he had acquired from the body of one of the men that had rushed into the room, while Athos, was nudging one of the other men with his foot as he reloaded a gun. Athos finished loading and priming the weapon before scooping a second off the floor and repeating the procedure.

'I see you managed to find a set of clothes that actually fits you,' remarked Athos as he self-consciously pulled his breeches up.

Porthos had appeared beside him and Aramis. He was looking at Aramis carefully. Aramis was busy looking at the wound on d'Artagnan's side.

'It's only a graze,' Aramis said. 'It will need dressing though…'

Aramis pushed d'Artagnan's hand back over the wound before looking at Porthos.

'You had to do it,' Aramis sighed.

D'Artagnan realised Porthos was still feeling guilty about causing Aramis' injury.

'It was either that or kill me, and I would rather have a broken arm than be dead,' continued Aramis.

D'Artagnan watched Porthos who did not look placated.

Aramis shook his head, 'what can I say, Porthos. You saved my life by hurting me…'

Porthos nodded, 'I suppose you're right,' he said with a sigh.

'Good, now can we perhaps get out of this room,' said Athos from behind them. 'I am sure d'Artagnan would rather be anywhere but here whilst we dress his injury. And that arm needs splinting. And we need to search the house.'

Aramis looked at d'Artagnan, 'and there was me thinking we might be given a chance for a sit down for a few minutes.'

D'Artagnan managed a chuckle before wincing and screwing his eyes shut for a few seconds. When he opened them again, he found Aramis had moved to sit next to him as Athos ripped a couple of strips of cloth from one of the dead men's shirts and Porthos double checked the bindings on the unconscious devil worshippers. Aramis helped him to lean forward slightly as Athos threaded the improvised bandage around him and secured it over some wadded-up fabric covering the wound.

Once his friends were satisfied with the temporary bandage, Porthos and Athos helped him back up to his feet. Porthos remained at his side as Athos led them from the room, with Aramis a few steps behind holding one of the guns in his hand. Both men were alert and ready for action, although d'Artagnan doubted any of them was really up for another sustained skirmish.

MMMM

D'Artagnan glanced back at the altar as they turned down the corridor outside the room where he had nearly met his end. He felt the fear bubble up in him for a few seconds but pushed it away. He had to concentrate on walking away and not showing his friends how scared he had been.

He realised two seconds later he had failed when Porthos spoke to him quietly.

'We've all been there. I don't think any of us has ever not feared we were doomed. This probably won't be the last time either. But you recovered quickly. If you hadn't fought back in there, I doubt we would have survived.'

D'Artagnan managed a smile and a quiet thank you as they continued along the corridor.

Athos, his gun held at his side was walking ahead checking each room as they passed it. Aramis was alternating between watching the corridor ahead and glancing back. D'Artagnan realised that they were all having to work hard to maintain their concentration. Aramis was injured but still acting as though nothing had happened. He knew that he was behaving in much the same way, it was as if by denying the pain he was in helped him to keep upright and alert. Although he equally looked forward to the chance to stop and perhaps sleep.

D'Artagnan wondered if he would dream about the events. He suspected he would, it was not something he looked forward to.

Athos carefully pulled open a door at the end of the corridor, revealing a stairway. As they silently ascended d'Artagnan could see daylight, something he had not seen for some hours. It occurred to him that he had no idea how long they had been held captive for.

Athos indicated for them to pause at the top of the stairs. They watched Athos walk into a large hallway, pausing in the centre listening intently before heading across the hall to an open doorway. They followed him into the room.

'This is where we were brought when I was asked to join them,' said Porthos.

'We have a lot of catching up to do,' remarked Athos as he pulled the curtains open that were covering the windows.

Light flooded the well-appointed room, d'Artagnan squinted a little but welcomed the natural light. The only light he had seen since his and Athos' capture had been fire, either candles or torches. The sunlight was welcome. Porthos had wandered over to the window with Athos. They both peered out.

'At least we know where we are now,' Porthos remarked.

Athos nodded, 'I will do a sweep of the rest of the house then get word to Treville.'

As Athos left the room, Porthos turned to d'Artagnan and Aramis, 'time to get you two sorted out.'

D'Artagnan allowed Aramis his few minutes of supervising the cleaning and dressing of his wound. The graze to his side would leave him uncomfortable for a few days and certainly hurt enough for him not to be able to fully forget it was there. Aramis apologised for not having brought any painkillers in the small medical bag he had assembled. As Porthos applied a proper bandage, d'Artagnan was glad of Aramis' supporting hand on his shoulder again.

He was pleased to return the favour for Aramis when Porthos dealt with his broken arm. Aramis was breathing hard and had his eyes screwed shut by the time Porthos had finished splinting the injury and easing his arm into a sling made from a silk sheet that Porthos had taken far too much enjoyment in slicing up for use.

Aramis and d'Artagnan were sat at a small table near the window, seeking out the natural light after the darkness they had all endured over the previous hours. After their immediate medical needs had been dealt with D'Artagnan had methodically taken the two guns apart and cleaned them as best he could before slowly putting them back together. Aramis had watched him, d'Artagnan thought with a hint of jealousy.

'We'll both be on light duties for a while,' mused Aramis.

They both looked up as they heard the front door open and close a few seconds later.

'Athos is back quick,' said Porthos who had been looking at the bookshelves that stretched across one wall of the grand room.

Porthos moved to the door to meet their friend. D'Artagnan and Aramis watched shocked as the door was pushed open quickly and Porthos was struck with the butt of a gun and sent crashing to the ground.

MMMM


	14. Chapter 14

D'Artagnan and Aramis were both on their feet in seconds. D'Artagnan stared at the three men who had walked into the room. The first man had a gun pointing in their direction. The other two men were dragging a limp Athos between them. Athos was trying to push to his feet but did not seem capable.

Aramis took a small step forward but stopped when the man with the gun moved it to aim at the prone form of Porthos who was sprawled across the floor. All that stood between them and the newcomers was an ornate couch.

The two men dragging Athos let him go, he collapsed to the floor a couple of feet from Porthos. He managed to push himself over onto his side and shuffle towards the far wall. D'Artagnan could tell he had been beaten badly, he was breathing shallowly and had wrapped one arm around his chest.

The men, dressed in the same plain clothes as the other guards, regarded the Musketeers.

'We have been lied to,' said one of the men who had been dragging Athos.

D'Artagnan recognised him as one of the guards that seemed to have been closer to Thibault, perhaps a senior member of the worshippers but lacking the wealth of the chosen few.

'You four have decimated our numbers, but we will recover. There are enough of us left to start again. The recruitment goes on all the time. Our leader was nurturing the next generation and a new leader had already been chosen. He may have been thrust to the fore of our people sooner than he expected but he is ready and will lead us well.'

The man took a couple of steps into the room standing with his back to Athos. D'Artagnan realised the man was confident that Athos posed no threat to him. D'Artagnan was inclined to agree, Athos did not look well. Porthos had not moved since collapsing to the ground after being struck by the first man. The de facto leader of the three men stood at attention, looking at the two standing Musketeer, his eyes settling on Aramis.

'You have to make a choice,' the man said. 'We are willing to allow you and your two cohorts to go free-'

'There are four of us,' said Aramis.

'The offering must remain. The ceremony needs to be completed. Our new leader will finish what he started.'

The man glanced down at Porthos a sneer on his lips.

D'Artagnan could feel his heartbeat speeding up. He had been a little apprehensive remaining in the house but had felt safer since they had thought they were alone, although he would never have admitted that to his friends. Now his continued fear was founded. He glanced at Aramis who appeared to be weighing up his options. D'Artagnan knew he could not run, there was no way out of the room other than the door the men were standing by. It would take him too long to try to leave by the window, he could not risk the lives of his friends. There was no option. D'Artagnan realised with shock that he had no choice. What shocked him more was Aramis had reached the same conclusion.

'You have to go with them,' he said. 'I'm sorry but you are one man, I'm not willing to sacrifice the three of us for you.'

D'Artagnan looked across at Athos who also looked shocked at Aramis' words. But there was something else in his expression, a slight hint of worry perhaps. Porthos had not stirred, but d'Artagnan was sure the man would also have been shocked at Aramis' attitude. Aramis had spoken with a tone of regret to his voice, but he had meant the words.

'Go on,' encouraged Aramis with a nod towards the men with guns.

D'Artagnan was lost for words he could not believe the man he thought was his friend was so callously giving him up, without any attempt to negotiate. Aramis could charm most people, but he had made no attempt with the men in the room. Had his judgment and ability become clouded by his injuries?

Awkwardly, d'Artagnan walked forward, circling the couch, moving towards the men who wanted to kill him.

Away from the man who had given him up without a fight.

MMMM

Aramis watched d'Artagnan walk past him. He hoped his young friend would forgive him, hoping that he did not really believe that he had given him up. Aramis would not do that to one of his friends. Athos looked shocked, but Aramis could also see the slightly reproachful look in his friend's eyes. They both knew it was a risk and Aramis was risking all of their lives. But it was a risk all of them would be willing to take for any one of them.

Aramis shifted back a pace, bumping into the small table slightly, resting his left hand on the edge of it. The men glanced at him but were not paying much attention to the rest of them as the offering gave himself up to them.

When d'Artagnan was a couple of feet away from the leading man, who had raised a hand to take his captive's arm, Aramis made his move.

It was Athos who yelled at d'Artagnan to get down. Some rabbit-like reflex had the Musketeer hit the floor, dropping like a stone. In the same instant, the men all turned towards Athos, the one with the gun shifting his arm towards the injured man. Aramis already had the gun from the table in his hand before the men had finished turning and d'Artagnan had made it to the floor. Aramis raised the gun, aimed and fired in one swift movement, releasing the weapon, before the man who had been shot even knew he would be dead in a matter of seconds. As the gun clattered to the floor Aramis was already lifting the second gun.

The leading man whirled around, trying to pull his gun from his belt as he did so. Aramis calmly shot the man in the head. As the man fell to the floor a shocked expression on his face, the third man moved towards Aramis at pace.

Aramis saw d'Artagnan twist around and grab the man by the ankles causing him to crash to the floor. The man tried to kick out at d'Artagnan, but the Musketeer managed to get the better of him with a punch to the stomach causing him to sit up slightly, doubling up in pain. But the move gave the man a chance to grab at d'Artagnan and push him over. Unbalanced and still in pain from his own injury d'Artagnan was at a disadvantage. The man managed to get on top of him, pinning him to the ground, his hands around d'Artagnan's throat. The man seemed to have forgotten that d'Artagnan was supposed to be ritually sacrificed.

Behind the fighting men, Aramis was not surprised to see Athos pulling the knife he had found on one of the guards earlier from his boot. The men had not searched him when they had beaten him. In a move that looked rehearsed, but could not have been, Athos slid the knife across the expensive wooden floor towards Porthos hand. Porthos grabbed the knife and pushed himself up enough to turn and thrust the knife into the attackers back, before grabbing the man and hauling him off d'Artagnan.

The man thrashed around for a few seconds, trying to reach the blade that was buried in his back. It took him a few minutes to become fully still.

The four Musketeers looked at each other. Aramis was still leaning against the table, Athos was sat on the floor by the door, Porthos on his knees by the man he had stabbed and d'Artagnan, a slightly bewildered expression on his face, had propped himself up on his elbows.

'Thanks,' said d'Artagnan.

Aramis was not sure if the thanks were just for Porthos or for all of them.

MMMM

Athos watched d'Artagnan's face as he tried to work out what had happened. The young man seemed confused. Athos understood the feeling. So much had happened in a matter of seconds. They had all played a part, but none of them had been prepared. He marvelled at their ability to work together with no plan. The instinctual moves had saved d'Artagnan and probably all of them.

'How did you know what would happen?' d'Artagnan asked after a few seconds of staring at the bodies.

'He didn't know it would work,' said Porthos. 'How could he know?'

Aramis managed to push himself up to stand and moved to crouch by d'Artagnan.

'I knew there was no other way to distract them than to give them what they wanted,' he said as he pulled d'Artagnan doublet aside to check the dressing on his wound.

'How did they not see the guns?' asked d'Artagnan who was still catching up on what had happened to him.

'He was standing in the way of them and the couch would have blocked the sightlines of the man who was in charge,' answered Athos.

'But there were three men,' countered d'Artagnan, 'you only had two guns and you couldn't have reloaded quickly enough, even if you could have done.'

Aramis smiled, 'you forget sometimes that we have been at this for a few years longer than you. I remembered Athos had a dagger in his boot and I knew the third man would try to get to me, as the only apparent threat in the room. But I knew I was not the only threat in the room. I knew you would react, even it at that moment you doubted my intentions towards you, you would not want to see the man attack me.'

'But he got the better of me-'

'The distraction was enough though,' said Porthos with a grin.

D'Artagnan narrowed his eyes, 'how come you came around just in time?'

'They never made sure I was unconscious. Did they?'

Athos watched as all the pieces fell into place in d'Artagnan's head.

'I'm sorry I tricked you,' said Aramis.

D'Artagnan shook his head, 'I was a bit confused, but I knew you wouldn't really have given me up so easily.'

Athos was not sure d'Artagnan was telly the truth, but they would let it pass. They had all been pushed to their limits.

Porthos pushed himself up to stand waving Aramis away when he tried to stop him moving about.

'I've had worse,' he said as he turned towards Athos. 'What happened?'

Athos sighed, 'I was on my way back when they grabbed me. I think the fatigue made me slow to react. They managed to drag me off the street and out of sight, not that there are many people about anyway. I managed to persuade a boy to take a message to Treville for me on the promise that he would be paid well by the Captain.'

Porthos smirked.

'Do you think the rest of them will come back?' asked d'Artagnan who was looking at the bodies again.

Athos could understand his friends worry. They knew there were still some of the gang of devil worshippers at large. They would have to be wary until they were safely back at the garrison. He hoped his message would bring the Captain and reinforcements quickly. He had to admit that he was ready to stop being in a constant state of alertness. He did not wish to show weakness, but after the men had beaten him, he was ready to stop being a target for a while.

As Porthos helped him to his feet and guided him to sit on the couch he watched Aramis helping d'Artagnan to stand. They both winced.

'Aramis,' said Athos with as much of a commanding tone as he could muster at that moment, 'you are not in any state to see to our injuries. Just accept that you are not fit and sit down.'

Porthos smiled at Athos, 'wise words,' he said.

Aramis sighed, and after supporting d'Artagnan to the nearest chair, sat next to Athos on the couch with a glare.

'Satisfied?' he asked.

A shout from the doorway made them all react with relief. Treville called out a second time before Porthos reached the doorway and indicated where they were. As the Captain stepped into the room and saw the bodies of the three men scattered about the floor and his Musketeers in various states of health, Athos realised they all had a lot of explaining to do.

MMMM

Treville had pulled out one of the firm-backed chairs that had been tucked under the table, he sat heavily and regarded his men.

When the young lad that had brought the message arrived at the garrison, he had almost chuckled at the lad's insistence that he was to be paid for the message.

Almost.

After paying the lad handsomely he had corralled all the available men and made his way to the house in the affluent area of the city. They had found the door ajar, which had worried Treville as he pushed the door open. The message Athos had sent informed him that Aramis and d'Artagnan were injured but that they were all free and most of the enemy had dispersed.

Porthos appearing in a doorway across the large hall had not helped to quell the worry about the open door. Porthos looked dishevelled and had an obvious bruise to his cheek.

He had entered the room, relieved to find the rest of his men, but not happy about the state they were all in. Barbotin, who had been with him as they entered the house, gently eased his Captain out of the way and crossed the room to the injured men.

Treville let his field medic take charge. He knew he was better equipped to deal with the injured men, even Aramis did not interfere, although only after a hard glare from Barbotin.

As each man was dealt with, Treville managed to get updates, disjointed at times, but gradually a picture of all that had occurred was formed in his head. D'Artagnan had come very close to being killed. Aramis had taken a beating from the wayward worshippers and been hurt by Porthos to keep their deception sound. Athos had then been unfortunate to be caught when they thought their ordeal was over, and badly beaten as well.

'Joubert is still missing,' said d'Artagnan, 'he was there when they were going to...sacrifice me...I didn't see him leave.'

Porthos shook his head, 'we were too busy at the time to keep an eye on them all. We think there's a couple of the paid men missing as well. But we don't know how many of them there are. There was an indication that there could be more that weren't residing here.'

Treville leaned forward, 'you've done what you set out to do. You've disrupted the murderers. These people were responsible for the deaths of countless people. I doubt they will be able to continue. Joubert will not be able to return to the court-'

'Have we just moved the problem on, because we didn't get them all?' mused Aramis as he watched Barbotin redress d'Artagnan's wound.

'It will take them time to set themselves back up,' said Athos as he shifted uncomfortably, his own injuries causing him discomfort. 'We have delayed them at least.'

Pierre and Luc entered the room.

'No one else left that isn't already dead or tied up,' said Pierre. 'We're in the process of transferring the captives to the Chatelet.'

'Good,' nodded Treville, 'any information about other hideouts...any information about anything?'

Luc shook his head, 'Marc is still going through some of the paperwork that we found, but he says there is nothing so far.'

'Have him keep hold of the paperwork, the King and his advisors will probably want to look at it,' said Treville.

The two men nodded before retreating from the room. Barbotin stood up and turned to Treville.

'I've done all I can. A proper doctor should look at them,' he said, 'but I don't think any of their injuries needs more than fresh dressings and rest to cure.'

Treville nodded his thanks. He watched as Barbotin tidied away his medical bag, arranging everything in the same order that Aramis did with his. When Barbotin had left the room, Treville turned back to his men.

'Can I trust the four of you to rest? Or do I have to confine you to the garrison?'

The Musketeers nodded.

'Good. Let's get back then, I expect you will be glad to leave this place and get back to familiar territory.'

His men nodded again. Treville hated to see them all injured to varying degrees. He noted the faraway look that kept creeping into d'Artagnan eyes, the young man had come very close to being killed whilst he was unable to defend himself. And Porthos was hiding it well but was obviously guilty about hurting Aramis. Even Athos seemed a little troubled that he had been caught by the devil worshippers, not once, but twice.

Treville was determined that his best men would be given the chance they needed to fully recover from their injuries before he put them back to full-time work. He just hoped they would accept his help.

MMMM

**Authors note: Thanks for all the comments, favourites and follows. One more chapter tomorrow to deal with the obvious lose thread.**


	15. Chapter 15

_A few days later..._

Back in his uniform, Porthos felt cleaner and better prepared to meet any enemy that threatened him or his friends. The fact that that enemy was the King did not surprise Porthos. The monarch was pacing up and down berating the four of them. He had been berating them solidly for ten minutes. Porthos was quite impressed the man had not yet grown board and sent them on their way.

The Queen was stood watching a few yards away, her ladies in waiting trying to look interested, but failing. The Queen, however, had listened intently to Treville's report of all that had happened to the four Musketeers as they had beaten the odds despite the assortment of injuries, they had all picked up.

'I thought you were the best of the Musketeers,' the King said.

He paced away a short distance stopping in front of a footman who was struggling not to react to the close proximity of his lord and master. Porthos noted the look of relief flash across the man's face as the King turned away.

They had been summoned to the Palace. Treville had said the King had wanted to see the four of them on the same day that they had escaped the devil worshippers. Treville had persuaded the King that his men needed to have their injuries properly seen to before they could be made presentable at court. Porthos knew their Captain was not lying, the four of them were all exhausted and three of them were injured. Porthos did not count the grazes and bruises he had suffered as injuries. He did still feel guilty about breaking Aramis' arm, despite his friend telling him, several times, that he did not blame him in any way. Aramis' dismissal of the issue did not stop Porthos from wanting to help his friend as much as possible during his convalescence.

When they had returned to the garrison it had taken a bit of persuasion to get the injured men to spend at least one night in the infirmary. Porthos had offered to stay with his friends. They had eaten well and talked late into the night, despite their tiredness, sleep seemed elusive for many hours. Porthos knew that d'Artagnan was a little worried about nightmares. It had taken the rest of them to point out that they had all come close to death before in many different scenarios.

They eventually retired to bed, falling into unbroken slumber until midmorning the following day, despite d'Artagnan's worry.

Now they were standing in front of an angry King, wishing they were anywhere else.

'You have a broken arm,' said the King pointing at Aramis who was obviously struggling not to take a step away from the accusatory Royal finger.

'Yes, majesty.'

'How did you break your arm. You're the Musketeer marksman, what use are you now?'

'His arm will mend, your Majesty,' said Treville, before Aramis could say anything they might all regret.

'I broke his arm, Majesty,' said Porthos, who disliked seeing his friend being berated for something that was not his fault.

The King rounded on him, anger in his eyes. Treville again came to the rescue.

'Porthos hurt Aramis as part of their act. Porthos had to prove that he was willing to treat the lower classes in the same manner that the devil worshippers wanted to.'

The King glanced at Treville for a few seconds before looking at Porthos. Porthos stared straight ahead, keeping to attention.

'And you got yourself shot,' the King narrowed his eyes at d'Artagnan who had not been able to hide the pain he was still in.

'There was a melee in an enclosed space, Majesty,' said Porthos. 'We were outnumbered, but still, beat the odds.'

The King glared at Porthos before turning to Athos.

'And you were beaten on the street. And the pair of you allowed yourselves to be taken by the men in the first place.'

Tutting the King turned his back on them all and walked up to a sideboard. Arranged on the sideboard were four small blue boxes, each with a hinged lid that stood open. They could not see the contents of the boxes.

'I was going to give you each a medal to show my appreciation for your work,' he said as he looked at the small blue boxes. 'But I have decided you do not deserve them.'

With a loud click, he shut each box in turn, the sound echoing around the large room they were standing in. Porthos noticed the ladies in waiting jumping as each box was slammed shut. After the sound had dissipated the King turned back to face them. He regarded them with disdain for a few seconds.

'I do not want to see them again until they are all back to full duties. They do not deserve the honour of protecting the King.'

Without further ado, the King turned and walked from the room, the footmen rushing to open the door for him as he went. Most of the attendants in the room followed in his wake. Only the Queen and her two ladies remained. She was looking at the open door, her head slightly tilted as if listening carefully. As the flurry of activity that always surrounded the King died away, she looked at the Musketeers.

'I told Comtesse Beringer and Madame Roux what you did. I told them how you had all investigated the killings of their sons and the other victims. I told them what the four of you did in that horrible house with those horrible people…'

She paused and slowly walked to the sideboard where she gathered up the boxes. She crossed to stand in front of them, making eye contact with each of them in turn as she continued to speak.

'Comtesse Beringer and Madame Roux have lost their sons. They will never recover from that loss, I am sure. But they told me they are glad that the men responsible for so much evil have been dealt with. I am sure those that got away will have no inclination to return.'

The Queen walked up to d'Artagnan and handed him one of the boxes.

'You four acted with bravery to deal with the situation.'

She moved onto Athos who took the second box with a bow of his head.

'You could have buckled under the pressure, but you did not.'

Porthos took the third box with a smile of thanks to the Queen who smiled back at him.

'My husband does not understand true bravery…'

She paused in front of Aramis, her eyes lingering on his broken arm and the bruising that still marked his face.

'...but I understand. And I am grateful. Take these on behalf of the bereaved families. They have some solace now. The men that were responsible for the murders of their family members have been dealt with.'

As she handed the last box to Aramis, she glanced back at them all with a smile.

'Louis will not notice. He has probably already forgotten about this whole incident.'

She smiled at them all for a few seconds, before turning to go. The Musketeers all bowed, as well as they could, given their injuries as she left.

As the ladies in waiting disappeared after their mistress, Treville turned to them.

'It would probably be a good idea to not wear those when you are in the presence of the King.'

'I am sure it will not be too long before the King goes back to ignoring us,' said Athos.

'Yeah,' said Porthos, 'he only notices us when we've done something that annoys him.'

MMMM

Athos watched as the Captain walked across the garrison yard and climbed the steps back to his office. He had given them strict instructions to take two days leave before even contemplating returning to work. And even then, he would only be giving them light duties.

Aramis had sighed dejectedly, the fact that he was carrying the worst injury of the four of them was weighing heavily on him. Athos noticed that d'Artagnan did not look much more enthusiastic about the enforced rest he would have to take for a few more days until the wound to his side had healed sufficiently for him to do anything even vaguely active. Athos knew that his own injuries, although unpleasant to look at, would fade quicker. He was stiff from the beating he had received but would be back on duty before his friends.

Porthos' guilt had not dissipated. The Musketeer had accepted that he had no choice but to cause Aramis harm, but that did not ease his self-loathing due to the act. Athos had watched as Aramis humoured his friend on the walk back from the Palace. Aramis' cloak had slid from his shoulder a couple of times causing Porthos to take the time to pull it back into place. Porthos had also been the one to gather Aramis' breakfast and had hovered close to him since they had returned in case, he needed anything.

D'Artagnan might not have been quite as physically affected as Aramis, the wound on his side was in no way as debilitating to him. He was having to take it easy and could not move as quickly as he would have liked. The mental scars were the ones that worried Athos. He knew he would have to talk to the young man at some point. He was not one to be open with emotion but to suppress the fear and worry that d'Artagnan had suffered was not something that could be encouraged. D'Artagnan had briefly told them about his time imprisoned in the pitch-black cell which was followed by his forced ordeal tied to the altar with no obvious escape. Athos had spoken to Aramis and Porthos and told them to keep an eye on their friend. They did not want him to suffer alone. Bottling up traumatic events did not do any of them any good. At that moment d'Artagnan was gazing off into the distance not really paying attention to his surroundings.

Athos returned his attention to Aramis who was starting to look exasperated with the continued fuss Porthos' was making. Athos was impressed with his friend's patience up to that point. But even Aramis had a limit.

'Porthos, I'm fine. It's a broken arm. I'm not a total invalid,' Aramis snapped at Porthos.

D'Artagnan, who had been lost in thought again, looked across at his friends. Athos wondered if the sudden tension between Aramis and Porthos was a welcome diversion for him from his retrospective thoughts.

'Just leave me alone,' said Aramis, the exasperation finally spilling over. 'I can do most things myself.'

Athos had not seen what Porthos had done to finally make Aramis react, it was probably not even a big gesture.

Porthos looked at Aramis, blinking a couple of times. Athos could not read his expression. He did note a look of regret cross Aramis' face as Porthos silently straightened up from whatever it was he had been about to do. He turned and walked away, heading towards the garrison gate and out into the city.

Aramis eased himself up from the bench.

'I didn't mean for him to leave,' Aramis said unnecessarily as he followed the retreating Musketeer.

Athos looked at d'Artagnan.

'We're not letting him go after Porthos on his own. He may not think he's an invalid, but he would be an easy target, despite being back in uniform,' said d'Artagnan as he slowly pushed himself up to stand.

Even if it was a temporary reprieve for his friend, Athos was glad to see d'Artagnan focused on something other than his incarceration and near-death experience. They followed Aramis who had reached the gate and was looking to see which way Porthos had gone before following him.

D'Artagnan was correct, that Aramis would make an easy target for any unscrupulous individuals who would like to pick on an injured soldier. They were all in uniform again and armed. But that did not make the invulnerable.

Walking as quickly as they could with deference to d'Artagnan's injury they managed to catch up with Aramis who was following Porthos with a guilty look. Athos hated the issues their most recent work had caused for them all, none of which were their own fault. But they were the ones having to pay for it.

MMMM

'I know I shouldn't have had a go at him,' said Aramis as they followed Porthos.

Their friend was far enough ahead that they could not call out to him over the noise and bustle of the busy streets. He was not walking fast, but fast enough that they were not catching him up.

'I am impressed you put up with his mothering for as long as you did,' remarked Athos.

Aramis smiled; it had been endearing at first. He was sure Porthos finally accepted that he held no ill will towards him. He had not minded the help that was being offered to start with, particularly when it seemed to help Porthos with his guilt. But as the days had worn on, Aramis had found the continued assistance a little smothering until he had finally had enough and snapped at his friend, something he immediately regretted. But the damage was done. Porthos had taken the rebuke to heart and walked off. Aramis wished he could move a bit faster, but the bruising and other injuries, not to mention his broken arm were slowing him down. He wanted to catch his friend up and apologies, offer to buy him lunch and just do normal things together.

D'Artagnan was walking on the other side of him, he seemed more focused than he had been a few minutes before. Athos had mentioned that their young friend was showing signs of being more affected by his incarceration than he was letting on. Perhaps the distraction was doing him good. Aramis did not like the idea of any of his friends being affected by a mission in any way, physically or otherwise.

'He'll know you didn't mean it,' said d'Artagnan as they continued to follow Porthos.

'He knows you are in pain. We have all suffered,' said Athos.

Aramis was pleased his friends were with him as he made his way through the city. He was not worried to walk alone through the city, even with a broken arm, but there was a bit more safety in numbers, even if all three of them were not as fit as they could be.

He was surprised when d'Artagnan stopped dead in his tracks his hand on Aramis' left arm stopping him as well. Athos stopped a couple of seconds later, they looked at d'Artagnan who was staring ahead, his eyes wide. They followed his gaze and spotted when he had seen.

Joubert, the new leader of the devil worshippers and the missing guards were following Porthos. They had appeared from a side street. Aramis quickly worked out that they must have been watching the garrison. It would have been easy to work out where the trained men who had infiltrated their group had come from. They could have been watching the house when Treville and the other Musketeers arrived.

When Porthos left the garrison, apparently alone, the watchers must have sent word to Joubert that an opportunity for revenge had arrived.

Porthos was oblivious to the men following him. He had looked a bit distracted as he walked, Aramis felt even worse for snapping at his friend.

They watched as Porthos turned off the main street towards the river. The three devil-worshipping men followed. Aramis was sure he saw the glint of steel being pulled from a belt as they lost sight of the men.

The three Musketeers quickened their pace as best they could. As they reached the lane that Porthos had turned down they were in time to see the three men following him disappear around a kink in the road. They continued to follow. Aramis pulled his gun from his belt; it was primed and ready to be fired. It felt odd pulling the weapon with his left hand. It had taken some time when he put his weapons on that morning to work out how to arrange them. He had eventually realised there was little point in him carrying a sword. He had tucked one gun and his main gauche into his belt, doubting he would require either anyway.

Until he had seen men following his friend with evil intent.

D'Artagnan and Athos were walking beside him with equal purpose. They rounded the slight bend knowing there were only a hundred yards between them and the river. The area Porthos had been heading for was somewhere that on the very odd occasion the man wanted to be alone he would sit on the bank of the river and watch the world go by for a while. It was not often that Porthos became melancholy. Aramis was annoyed that he had been the reason Porthos had wanted to be alone.

The three men had caught up with Porthos. Joubert had grabbed at Porthos whilst the other two men were trying to push him forward, towards the river. Joubert had a look of pure hatred on his face as he shoved at Porthos. Porthos had managed to twist around, he had not had time to pull any of his weapons, he was pushing back with his hands, but the ground was slippery, his boots were not finding purchase, he was being pushed towards the river. If he were to fall, he would probably not survive. The river was fast flowing and the water cold where they were.

Aramis skidded to a halt knowing there was no point in him rushing forward, he raised his weapon. Without any plan formed between the three of them, they all knew what to do. D'Artagnan was standing beside him, arm outstretched, gun aimed in the direction of the struggling men. Athos surged forward, as the most mobile of the three of them he was the only one that could sensibly get hands-on with the gang members and Joubert.

Porthos did not seem to be aware of their presence, he was pushing back at Joubert, but the battle was one he would not win, he was mere inches from the edge of the bank.

Aramis yelled. The distraction caused the two guards to pause and look around, the move put them out of the way of Porthos, meaning they could easily be shot by the highly trained Musketeers without the worry of hitting the man being attacked.

Joubert was still pushing forward. Porthos' left foot slipped over the edge of the bank, forcing them both to the ground. Still, Joubert pushed forward, but only for a couple of seconds. Athos, his main gauche in hand sliced at the man's arms, causing him to yelp and release Porthos. Athos pulled Joubert back before lunging forward and grabbing at Porthos who had lost his fight with gravity and tilted over the edge of the bank.

D'Artagnan leapt forward with a feral cry of his own, grabbing at Joubert and pulling him further away from Athos and Porthos. Joubert tried to push d'Artagnan off him but failed. D'Artagnan clubbed him firmly with the butt of his spent gun, sending the man thudding back to the hard ground unconscious.

Aramis let out a sigh of relief as Athos pulled Porthos fully back onto the bank of the river. They all looked at each other for a few seconds. Aramis wondered if their ordeal was finally over.

MMMM

'Thanks,' said Porthos, looking at them each, in turn, his eyes stopping on Aramis.

'Sorry,' said Aramis with a slight tilt of his head. 'I know you didn't mean to wind me up…'

Porthos managed a smile and raised his hand for Aramis to help him up. Athos hid a smile as without thinking Aramis proceeded to brush Porthos down and check him for injuries. Porthos stared at him. It took Aramis several seconds to realise what he had done. He stood back and looked at them all with a slightly embarrassed flush to his face.

'I...err…'

'You can't help yourself, I'm not allowed to make a fuss… but you are,' said Porthos with a shake of his head followed by a smile.

D'Artagnan was looking at the unconscious man at his feet.

'Do you think he'll hang?' he asked without looking up, Athos could see a pensive expression on his face.

'I would imagine he will be beheaded, but he will be executed,' replied Athos, watching the younger man carefully.

D'Artagnan nodded to himself. Athos wondered what d'Artagnan was thinking. When he looked up from Joubert, his eyes were focused. He no longer had the slightly haunted look he had not lost since they had left the house where he had almost become a victim of the devil worshippers.

'I think,' d'Artagnan said, 'that now their new leader has been caught and will face the penalty for his actions, the rest of them will be directionless.'

Porthos nodded, 'most of them were followers. He'd been prepared to take over from Thibault, and now he's not going to be leading anyone anymore.'

'I will not be sorry to see him die,' said d'Artagnan decisively.

MMMM

An hour later, d'Artagnan and his friends were sitting in a quiet corner of one of their favourite taverns. Aramis had insisted on buying them lunch, although d'Artagnan had noticed Athos slipping their friend a few coins from his own purse when they reached the tavern. The food was good, the wine was excellent. The company could not be bettered. They were all there. They were injured, they were out of commission for a while, but they were there. All four of them.

D'Artagnan had worried that he would struggle to recover from the ordeal. He had noticed the others watching him carefully, he had known they would help him through it. But somehow, now that he knew Joubert was safely locked away in the Chatelet, under the constant watch of two Musketeers, their ordeal was over. It was unlikely any of the other gang members would come after them. They were sure all the ones that had seen them were either with Joubert in the prison or had been killed. It felt to d'Artagnan that a weight had been lifted from him. He was relieved, he had not even realised how much the events had affected him to start with. The time spent in the dark room had gradually become all that he could think of. He would never admit it to his friends, but he had been unable to sleep in the dark since they got out. He was sure he would be able to blow the last candle out when he went to bed that night.

D'Artagnan smiled as Porthos plonked a fresh bottle of wine on the table and gave Athos the change, ignoring Aramis' outstretched hand.

'I know you haven't got any money,' he said, not unkindly, 'it's the thought that counts.'

Aramis smiled, 'well, you must have been very hungry to have been so upset by my words earlier.'

Porthos, who did not seem able to come up with a retort, slapped Aramis on the shoulder, forgetting his friend's injury.

Aramis gasped, clutching at the edge of the table as he rode out the pain Porthos had inadvertently caused. Porthos had his hand around Aramis keeping him steady, an awkward look of guilt on his face.

'Well you are responsible for causing him pain now,' said d'Artagnan with a chuckle.

Aramis had his eyes screwed shut but managed to pat Porthos' arm, 'it's alright,' he said, despite his voice sounding a little strangled by the pain.

'You deserved that one,' said Athos with a shake of his head and a smirk.

It took Aramis a few minutes to fully recover but he was soon back to his gentle teasing of Porthos who took it in the manner it was meant to be taken. There were no further incidents of note, and d'Artagnan was happy with that.

It felt good to be back to normal, mocking each other and telling tall tales about what they had been getting up to. Complaining about their assorted ailments and working out what they could do when they were allowed back on light duties.

It felt good to be back to doing what they did best. Not pretending to be something they were not.

The End.

**Authors note: I hope you enjoyed it. Sorry for not replying to more of your comments but was being a bit odd and not allowing me. **


End file.
